“Then that makes you all very important,” Percival said gravely, and the men beamed.
“Miss Amberly’s talking about putting all our work in a Museum of Yorkshire.”
Percival blinked. “That sounds wonderful.”
“We’re making history,” Mr. Nicholas declared. “This ‘ere soil is filled with Roman and Medieval treasures. It will all look right nice in a museum. Makes one right proud of being a Yorkshire man. Sorry, Duke—I know you’re not one.”
Percival smiled. “You must be a great help to Miss Amberly.”
“Now what brings you here?” Mr. Nicholas asked.
Mr. Potter laughed. “It sure ain’t to dig things up, not with your foot there.”
Percival lifted his chin. “My arms have never lacked for strength. And I believe that arms are the chief appendage used when digging.”
Mr. Potter’s face reddened.
“Anyway,” Percival said, “Where is Miss Amberly?”
They were sure to tell him that the housekeeper had been wrong, and that she hadn’t even visited the site. Or if she had visited the site, it had been hours ago. He tensed.
“Ah . . . She’s on her way to Italy.” Mr. Nicholas nodded sagely.
“Never seen a woman so excited,” Mr. Potter declared, and some of the men guffawed behind him.
“Is she far away?” Percival’s heartbeat quickened, and time seemed to still as he waited for the answer.
“Ah . . . Quite far away by now.”
“Oh.”
So it was over. He tightened his grip on his cane.
Mr. Nicholas tilted his head and offered a benevolent smile. “But I reckon we could take you to her. That contraption you’ve arrived in won’t make it, but I know a shortcut.”
“That would be wonderful,” Percival stammered.
“I rather am wonderful,” Mr. Nicholas mused. He flickered his gaze to Percival’s wooden leg. “Can you ride a horse?”
Percival broadened his chest. “I can indeed.”
“Good.” Mr. Nicholas pointed to some horses tied to a wooden fence. “Let’s go.”
Percival smiled and scanned the field. Shovels and axes flickered in the bright light, and the rest of the men returned to work.
Chapter Twenty-nine
The coach jerked to a halt.
“Oh for goodness’ sake!” Madeline tapped her boot against the carriage floor. “The driver knows we’re going a long way. We can’t start taking our time now.”
Murmurings sounded outside. An image of a tall, chestnut-haired man with striking, chiseled features and bright blue eyes pervaded Fiona’s mind. She pulled the velvet curtains of the carriage aside and stared into a thick cluster of trees.
Some things were best not pondered.
Percival was in the past. Firmly in the past. He’d be in London or Sussex or perhaps at a house party at some grand estate. He wouldn’t be here.
Lord, the man refused to be forgotten. The man was braver than any she’d ever met. He’d been kind to Grandmother, kind to her. He’d been handsome and brave, smart and funny, just like Captain Knightley. He’d been everything she’d ever desired, and far more than she’d ever hoped for.
It would be impossible to forget his noble figure, and the pleasing composition of firm, straight lines that composed his face. It would be difficult to forget arguing with him, but more impossible still to forget his kindness, and the way they’d laughed over things together. Even when he’d been most exasperated with her, she’d always sensed he’d understood the ridiculousness of the situation and had never entirely dismissed her. And that morning in her workroom—goodness, it would be impossible to forget that.
Sometimes she even imagined she heard his voice. Sometimes it seemed to ring in her ears. Deep and rich and velvety, like the sound of everything reassuring.
Something rustled in the bushes. “Fiona!”
She bit her lip. Lord, it sounded just like him.
The voice called again, and she told herself that it wasn’t him. Perhaps the driver had an assistant or friend or acquaintance she didn’t know about. Not that that would explain why he was calling her name. Perhaps—perhaps she should have had a second cup of tea after all, and was simply exhausted after yet another night of poor sleep.
That didn’t mean she was crazy. Just that she was a bit sleepy.
Slightly delirious.
Really, completely normal.
Almost.
“Fiona!” the voice echoed again, and her heart sped up, even as she tried to tell it that there was no need to because it absolutely couldn’t be—
Him.
She leaned back in her seat. She would not look. She refused to look. She would not deign to see if her imagination had concocted him.
There was no earthly reason in the world why the Duke of Alfriston would be outside.
“Most irritating,” Fiona found herself saying. Madeline raised her eyebrows, and she hastened to add, “The carriage stop, I mean. It’s taking a while.”
“Probably a loose cow. Or little lambs. As if they don’t know they’re there for eating and not for prancing around the middle of the lane.”
“Madeline!”
“I’m jesting!” Her cousin settled back into her seat. “Somewhat.”
Fiona sighed and poked her head from the window. The fresh air brushed against her, and the scent of spring flowers and grass caused her nostrils to flare. In fact—it almost seemed like she could smell cotton and pine needles, though that was ridiculous. Madeline and herself were firmly clothed in linen, and deciduous trees dominated the scenery: no pine needles were about. “Driver! What seems to be the trouble?”
Something that sounded like a muffled cry answered, and she shivered. She raised her voice. “Excuse—”
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” A deep voice wafted into the coach. The voice was wonderful, and the deep notes reminded her of all things splendid. “You are being attacked.”
“Attacked?” Fiona squeaked.
She swung her gaze toward him, but the man, whoever he was, wore a black mask.
“By the very worst highwayman.” The strange man whispered, and for some absurd reason, her skin prickled.
“Are you very terrible?”
The man laughed, and Lord, it sounded like his laugh. Rich and melodious like velvet. “I hang out with the likes of the Scarlet Demon.”
“Truly?” Her heartbeat fired, beating wildly.
“Truly!” he said, lowering his voice, “And I have plans to spend increased time with her.”
A sound rustled behind her, but all she concentrated on was him. The man was tall, and his dark great coat hung from broad shoulders. She wondered what would happen if she were to trace her fingers over his mask, whether she might find the well-formed nose, the sturdy jaw, the high cheekbones of him.
She extended her hand from the carriage, as if she were in a trance.
A footstep creaked behind her.
Thump. The man toppled down from the side rail.
“I did it!” Madeline’s triumphant voice soared behind Fiona.
“You didn’t—you didn’t shoot him?” Fiona’s eyes stung with tears that didn’t have time to fall. She jiggled with the door handle, exhaling when it swung open.
“I’m not some violent creature.” Her cousin called after her, in a voice that almost seemed affronted. “I simply threw my valise at him.”
Fiona scurried toward the highwayman.
“I’ll check the driver,” Madeline chirped, and Fiona nodded weakly.
She stared at the lumpy heap before her. At least no blood was visible, though she knew that didn’t eliminate the possibility of the most advanced injuries. The man’s great coat sprawled out, the edges rippling over the muddy ground. The mask still sat firmly on the man’s face, and she knelt down beside him. Her eyes roamed to his legs. The man just had one.
It’s him.
Though maybe he’s dead.
She
reached trembling fingers toward the man’s mask. A sour taste invaded her mouth, and she swallowed hard. She grasped hold of the edge of the mask, and jerked the fabric upward, trying to prepare herself for pimpled-skin, a full beard, or anything else that could signify that this was not, in fact, him.
A regal brow, firm nose, and even firmer chin appeared before her. She resisted the urge to trace the planes of his face. The man was most definitely, most assuredly him.
Her heart thumped against her ribs, as if it were trying to pound the sounds of Handel’s Messiah for all the world to hear.
Percival’s dark eyelashes were fixed downward, and his skin was pale. Given his fondness of the outdoors, she could not blame the weather. A bump formed on his forehead.
“Please, please be fine.” She grabbed hold of his cold hand. Her heartbeat quickened as she stared at his ashen face.
He’d been in her thoughts every hour of every day, and yet she’d done nothing. And now it was too late. She pushed her hand toward his mouth. Warm air puffed against her fingers, and she exhaled.
He was alive.
She peered at him again.
Barely alive.
She loved him. She truly, completely loved him.
“The driver’s fine! Some highwaymen waylaid the coach,” Madeline called, and footsteps squished over the mud. And then a gasp sounded.
“It’s His Grace!” Madeline exclaimed.
“Whom you took out.” Fiona pressed her lips together.
“Not permanently I hope.” Her cousin bent down. “Oh my goodness.”
The man’s eyes—Percival’s eyes, darling Percival’s eyes—fluttered open. “You needn’t fret on my behalf.”
His voice was hoarse, and Fiona wanted to kiss his cheeks. She settled on stroking them and running her fingers through the soft curls of his blond hair.
Percival turned his head toward her, and his eyes expanded and softened all at once. “Am I in heaven?”
“Oh don’t tell me it feels like you’ve died!” Madeline exclaimed. “Forgive me, Your Grace. How do you feel?”
“Like I’m looking at the most beautiful angel.” Percival’s tone was reverent, and his gaze didn’t depart from Fiona’s.
“I assure you you’re not!” Madeline said.
And then she paused. And coughed. “Oh.”
Percival’s lips turned upward. “Baroness, please give me some privacy.”
“I’m not sure that’s proper, Your Grace.”
“Now.”
Madeline scampered back up the steps of the carriage, and Fiona stifled a giggle when the door slammed shut. Percival grinned and brushed a strand of her hair under her ear.
“Are you quite sure you’re fine?” Fiona asked.
Percival nodded. “It’s dangerous spending time with the Scarlet Demon.”
“Mm-hmm.” Fiona swallowed hard. “What were you saying?”
“Before I got cobbled with your cousin’s valise?”
Fiona nodded, her throat dry.
It was too much to hope that this was anything more than a moment’s spontaneity. Likely he saw their coach and wanted to amuse himself. That’s all.
Except—she hadn’t been traveling in her own coach. She’d been in her cousin’s.
Except—his family estate was in Sussex now. He shouldn’t be huddled behind trees, waiting to have a laugh.
Except—he was looking at her with something that looked very much like adoration, very much like something more than adoration.
Her heartbeat escalated, as if it were galloping through the lanes like a very real highwaywoman.
Though it needn’t look for treasure, for she’d already found it.
It was him.
“What on earth is going on?” Mr. Potter’s voice boomed.
She swung her head toward some trees. “I—”
Mr. Potter brushed through a thicket. Mr. Nicholas stomped through some bushes after him. Both men glared at her.
“We heard the commotion,” Mr. Nicholas said. “Came straight back.”
“We were tree-cutting,” Mr. Potter boasted. “Not quite as intellectual as archaeology, but it’s good to be well-rounded. Aye, aye, good for the ladies.”
“The gentlemen were careful to only cut down a tree which would be highly visible to coaches,” Percival said.
“Aye, aye. We pride ourselves on being very safety-conscious highwaymen. When we pretend to be.” Mr. Potter darted a nervous glance.
Fiona smiled. “I think you’d better move the tree.”
“Right, right.” Mr. Potter scowled, and he and Mr. Nicholas scampered away.
“We’re in a hurry,” the coach driver called out.
Percival’s jaw tightened, and Fiona tensed.
Madeline shook her head. “We can delay our journey. We cannot fail to help this man. It’s my fault that he’s injured. He requires a doctor.”
“I’m not sure how I’m supposed to find one,” grumbled the driver.
“I’ll come with you.” Madeline turned to Fiona. “Will you be able to remain with His Grace? It’s best not to move him.”
Fiona nodded, and her cousin scrambled back into the coach. The driver hastened up and urged the horses to turn around. The glossy black coach grew fainter as it rolled toward the horizon, leaving Fiona alone with Percival.
Chapter Thirty
Everything ached, and Percival shifted. Long strands of grass blew in the wind, prickling his skin, and fluttering his tousled attire.
Fiona’s soft hand brushed against his forehead and sent a joyful jolt through his body. He wanted her hand to remain there forever.
Instead she glanced at the sky, darker than before, and that sweet brow furrowed. “Hopefully the doctor will be here soon.”
Percival smiled at her sudden primness. That said, a doctor sounded bloody good.
Raindrops fell, and Fiona peered up. “Oh, no.”
“Help me up,” he said. “Let’s follow the direction the carriage went in. At least we’ll be able to meet it more quickly and hopefully we can find shelter en route.”
She blinked. “You’re supposed to be ill.”
He shrugged. “I’m not unaccustomed to pain.”
In truth he hadn’t felt this good in a long time. Fiona was here. Beside him. Perhaps he could have reassured Fiona’s cousin. But then again—now he was alone with Fiona.
She hesitated, but then lightning fissured the sky.
“Springtime in Yorkshire,” she muttered.
“Time to go?” He grinned.
Fiona nodded and pulled him up. He couldn’t ignore the blissful warm sensation that spread through him at her touch. He wanted nothing more than to pull her into his arms.
He tilted his head toward her, but her expression was once again reserved. She handed him his cane. “You dropped this.”
“Thank you.” He despised the strange formality. Not that he didn’t deserve it. “Forgive me. My behavior the last time we saw each other was despicable.”
“How did you find me?”
“I went to the baroness’s home. One of the maids told me.”
Fiona nodded. “And the mask?”
“An improvisation. A stocking.” His shoulders shrank. “It’s been so long. Forgive me. I thought—I had this crazy sensation I was being romantic, but I see now, that . . .”
The raindrops toppled at a quicker pace, and the gray sky darkened. Thunder rumbled over them, and his heart thudded against its cage. Rain flooded the now muddy lane, bending the green stems of wild flowers, and Percival tightened his grip on his cane.
Fiona bit her lip and craned the horizon. Finally, her shoulders relaxed a fraction. “I see a cottage.”
“Good.”
She pointed in the direction of some trees, and he sighed. Ambling on slippery leaves and grass was even worse than braving the mud, but he forced himself forward. Fiona slipped her hand around the arm not wielding the cane, and he smiled.
It was bloody good to
have her in his life.
He just hoped she might remain in it.
The next minutes were a blur of slimy branches and squishy leaves. Finally, they halted their muddied slide.
“Edmund Grove.” Fiona read the name on the outside of the cozy, red brick cottage. “Oh, no.”
“Sweetheart.” His reply was instant, and her face flushed.
A lump in his throat thickened. She wasn’t his sweetheart. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
“No one’s home,” Fiona said, averting her eyes. “The cottage belongs to Madeline’s butler… But he went ahead with some of the other staff to Italy.”
A forlorn expression appeared on Fiona’s face. Her lovely auburn locks were swept into an elegant chignon; she had changed.
“Let me have one of your pins?”
Fiona’s eyebrows darted up, and she moved her head toward him. He shivered as the familiar scent of vanilla wafted over him. He’d missed this. So much.
He delved his fingers into her silky locks and slid a long pin from her hair.
She frowned at him, and some curls fell forward.
“You can take them all out.” He placed her hairpin in the keyhole, fiddling with it until it sprang open.
“Oh,” she gave a startled cry of approval, and his lips twitched.
“His Majesty’s Army has trained me for just such a moment.”
She swept by him and grabbed the hairpin, tucking it expertly back into her hair. “I’m sure we shouldn’t be here.”
“I don’t fancy huddling outside the cottage in this rain.”
She smiled. “Neither do I.”
For a moment his eyes flared. The woman was an angel. Every bit as beautiful as he remembered, though she now moved with an increased confidence, and her attire was elegant.
“I should have come back to you earlier.”
“But you didn’t want to,” Fiona said.
His eyes widened. “No. That’s not it.”
“You didn’t want to see what Lady Cordelia was like?” There was a bitter tone to her voice, and she immediately shook her head. “Forgive me. And—thank you for getting Graeme to send me back Ned. And for everything else as well.”
“I don’t deserve you. Though I should say I definitely did not leave out of curiosity for Lady Cordelia.”
How to Capture a Duke (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 1) Page 24