by Gaelen Foley
Seth and his father politely stepped out of the way.
“Do you boys need anything?” the footman called to them, mid-scurry.
“Er, no, thanks,” Father said quickly. “We serve the duke.”
“He wanted to know how long until dinner,” Seth chimed in.
The man blanched. “Please give His Grace our apologies. It’ll be ready in no time. Everyone, hurry!” The footman dashed off to help the effort underway to carry the food into the kitchens and get it served before it got any colder for the great Duke of Amberley.
Seth slid his father a sly glance. Father chuckled.
Then they walked slowly and deliberately, oh so casually, through the maze of workrooms. Passing the scullery with its big sinks and draining holes in the cold flagstone floor made Seth think of Saffie.
But he pushed her out of his mind. Just another reminder of his previous failures to impress his father. Tonight, surely, was the last chance he’d ever get. He had to make the best of it.
Father beckoned him down another hallway and into an ancient-looking stairwell with a low, arched ceiling. The next thing he knew, they were holed up in the dim, dank wine cellar, where they retreated to the darkest corner available.
Finally, they could relax, still dripping rain and shaking with the thrill of what they’d done.
“See? Easy. I told you.” Father took off his spectacles and polished away a few flecks of road dust and rain.
“You did,” Seth said. Reaching into his knapsack, he offered his father a bread roll.
Flynn took it and tore off a bite.
“So, what do we do now?” Seth asked.
“Now we wait,” Father replied through a mouthful.
“For what?”
“Till they all go to sleep.”
“And then what?”
“Killin’ time, lad.”
Seth paused, bracing himself. “It won’t work.”
He hated to say it, and his father clearly didn’t like hearing it.
“What do you know?” the old cutthroat retorted, scowling at him.
“With all due respect, sir, you’re not killin’ this man. He’s too good.”
“Eh, you’ve let him get inside your head,” Father said with a dismissive wave. “Leave it to me. Everyone’s got to sleep sometime.”
“Fine. So you use your wire on him, then? He wakes up and kills you. He’s unbelievably strong. How do you think I ended up looking like this?” Seth pointed at his mangled face. “He’ll snap your neck like a rabbit’s, sir.”
Father shrugged. “So you say.”
“Very well. Let’s say you find his room, shoot him the moment he closes his eyes. The sound wakes the whole household. They catch us; we hang. I’m not liking these plans, sir.”
“Well, what do you suggest, then?”
As his answer, Seth broke off a small piece of cheese from the wedge he had stolen. He placed it on the mousetrap set up nearby, then gave his father a meaningful look. “All we need is the bait, sir. Then we can kill him with ease. Trust me, he won’t even fight.”
CHAPTER 31
Landfall
Later that night, Connor caught an hour of much-needed sleep, but was awakened by a rumble of thunder. He lay in his bed for a few minutes longer, listening to the rain gusting against the window panes.
The long-promised storm had finally hit.
At length, he sat up, wincing at the pull to his wounded side with the motion. Leaning against the ornate headboard for a moment, trying to wake up, he had an unfettered view of the tempest raging beyond the huge windows across from his bed.
The guest chamber he’d been assigned sat in the Georgian addition to Dartfield Manor. Maggie and his aunts were far away in the original Tudor section.
His room was spacious, high-ceilinged, and dark. Shadows clustered in the distant corners, fingered the neoclassical cherry furniture, and tucked up into the coffered ceiling. But lower, the feeble illumination from the small fire crackling in the white marble fireplace licked over the impressive four-poster where he rested. It was the show of nature’s fury outside his window that held his attention, however.
The violence of it reminded him vaguely of battle. Silver slashes of rain beat against the windows. Flashes of fiery lightning streaked through the night’s deep indigo. Thunder reverberated like cannon fire; its waves shook the glass.
God, he was not looking forward to going out there.
Not when the massive bed beneath him was comfortable as a cloud. It was an impressive bit of business, the kingly four-poster. Rich blue bed hangings to match the drapes that he’d left parted over the windows. A mound of pillows, most of which he had thrown onto the floor.
Crisp white sheets swaddled his half-naked body. A blue and gold satin duvet kept him warm. He felt downright lordly lying in this thing. And lazy as hell.
As another lightning bolt tore across the sky, he would have much preferred to lounge here contentedly savoring the memory of royal pudding, tender Portland lamb, and the other excellent local dishes that Aunt Caroline’s trusty staff had managed to procure from the village.
But it was Connor’s duty to check on his men, who were out there keeping watch, poor bastards. He wanted to ride out to Pete and make sure he was doing all right in this mess. Connor wasn’t overly worried about him, though. If the man had tasted the monsoon season in India on his adventures, then an English springtime storm would hardly prove too much for him.
Besides, Connor had pointed out the peat-roofed stone shooting hut on the moor where Pete could take shelter for the night while keeping watch—an old refuge for shepherds and grouse hunters alike.
Rory was in the gatehouse, meanwhile, probably shivering his arse off. The thought of these two loyal companions finally pulled Connor out of bed. Not in a thousand years would he put his men out on sentry duty in weather like this without also joining the effort.
They all knew that until reinforcements arrived, vigilance was key. And so, with a sigh, he dragged his weary bones up and out of bed, and went over to the washstand to splash himself fully awake.
At least he’d got the horrid conversation with Aunt Caroline out of the way, he thought as he poured water from the pitcher into the washbasin. He’d had to, to explain why he needed to post his own men and some of her footman around the property to keep an eye on things.
Not that he expected any real trouble tonight, as he had assured her.
The Second Duchess had been stoic at the news of his suspicions, and finally admitted that she’d had doubts herself about the official story of the deaths in the family. He’d seen her mentally cursing Lucinda—and Charles—for bringing this on their family, but she had been nearly silent, taking it in without a tear.
Their talk, in fact, had been startlingly brief. Her spine ramrod straight, she had thanked him for journeying to Dartfield Manor to make sure that she and her daughters were also safe. They had agreed it was up to her to determine when and how to tell the twins the awful news, but, clearly, their mother needed at least a few days to absorb the awful news herself before sharing it.
When their talk was over, Caroline had ordered her staff to do whatever Connor said. Then she had retired to her chamber, for the hour was late, no doubt to cry her eyes out in private.
As Connor splashed his face over the washbasin, he was just glad to have that burden lifted off him now.
Ducking his head before the mirror, he ran his fingers over the stubble that darkened his jaw. “You need a shave, mate,” he mumbled.
That could wait till tomorrow. Then he dried his face and went to get dressed, pulling a pair of gray woolen trousers on over his drawers.
Shirtless, he peered down at his side, which was bandaged again after last night’s debacle. The reopened wound hurt, and now a big purple bruise was added to where that blackguard had bashed him with the rifle butt.
Not that he was complaining. God knew it could’ve been worse.
All the while
, the violent gales outside shook the manor, yet inside, the house seemed eerily quiet.
Connor wished he could say the same for his own thoughts. But in truth, he felt weary and sad. His heart ached a bit with the question of whether the peaceful life he’d always dreamed of would ever come to fruition.
He’d clung to hope for so long, but now he was beginning to doubt it. He knew he’d feel better if only he could make up with Maggie.
This discord with her still had him all out of sorts. When had she grown so essential to his basic functioning? And he ached to think that he had made her feel like he didn’t respect her, even for a moment, for it was so untrue.
He had barked at her, though—she was right—but it was only out of his state of intensity in the moment last night, not from a lack of care for the girl herself. Equally true was the fact that she was sensitive, as he’d stated earlier today, but that was no flaw. On the contrary, it was exactly why he felt so drawn to her. He vowed to himself that he’d be gentler with her in future, no excuses.
Adding to his general disgust with himself was the gnawing sense that he was missing something vital here.
None of this rubbish with Seth Darrow made any sense.
Why in the world would Elias Flynn send his son to keep killing off Dukes of Amberley—all because the harlot he’d once been attached to quit paying his blackmailing fees?
That was fifty years ago.
Unanswered questions continued whirling in his mind like the leaves circling in the wild eddies of wind outside. They set his teeth on edge. Ah well, maybe lightning would strike him out there and send down divine inspiration.
If it didn’t kill him.
Just then, he heard a timid knock at the door of his bedchamber. He assumed it was the servant who’d promised to wake him for sentry duty.
Still shirtless, he walked over to tell the man that he was up, but when he opened the door, he was astonished to find Maggie standing there holding a punched-tin lantern. His gaze trailed over her, wrapped up all cozy in a comfy velvet dressing gown, thick woolen socks on her feet.
Her skin was still pink and warm and rosy from a recent hot bath, he presumed. The telltale evidence was the little curling tendrils of her still-damp hair. It hung in long, flowing waves past her shoulders, and that, he had never seen before.
It entranced him to behold her like this, with her crowning glory unbound, a rich reddish brown in the candlelight.
How on earth was he not to ravish her when she kept showing up on his doorstep like this late at night?
Maybe that is her intention, his starved libido suggested.
Ha, said his better sense, considering the lady had barely spoken to him all day. Small hope flamed in him when he saw her glance admiringly down his bare chest, then she looked away, blushing.
“May I come in?” When she sent a nervous, almost guilty glance down the dim hallway outside his chamber, Connor remembered his wits, beckoning her in.
He closed the door quickly behind her.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, striving for nonchalance when, in fact, his heart had started pounding.
If she’d come here to scold him again, he really ought not to feel such joy at her arrival. But a scolding was better than being ignored.
“I hope I didn’t wake you up,” she said in a conspiratorial hush, tiptoeing deeper into his chamber.
“No. I was just getting ready to get back outside.”
Her eyes widened, and she glanced toward the window. “You’re going out there?”
God, he wanted nothing more than to pull her into that big, luxurious bed and ride out the storm with her under the covers.
Instead, he gave her a taut smile. “Figured I’d ride the perimeter. Make sure everything’s quiet.”
A frown puckered her brow. “Is that really necessary?”
“Probably not, but it will make me feel better.” Connor stole a glance at her hand and was relieved to see she was still wearing his ring.
After the way things had gone between them since last night, he barely knew what to expect. “So, ah, was there something you wanted?”
“Yes.” She gave him a businesslike nod and set her lantern down on the chest of drawers. “I’ve been waiting all day for a chance to talk to you in private. There’s something I need to tell you. But be warned: you’re not going to like it.”
His stomach lurched, and he froze. Oh God, she’s going to break off our engagement.
She can’t. I need her. His heart took up a sickening, breakneck pace, but Connor rested his hands on his hips with a small nod, listening intently.
It was her decision—and he would have to respect that even if it killed him. He forced himself to be stoic, but braced for the onslaught like the stalwart infantryman that he was.
“Yes?” Belatedly, he recalled his manners and cast an awkward gesture to the chair by the wall. “Er, would you like to sit down?”
She shook her head. “No, thank you. I-I mustn’t stay long.”
“Very well.” He took a deep breath, but really, would have rather been skewered with that damned dragoon’s bayonet than stand here and hear the woman he loved reject him for being a bloodthirsty killer and a hardheaded Irishman.
He suddenly felt very naked, half dressed as he was, but he was too proud to cover himself. Folding his arms across his chest, he lifted his chin.
“What is it?” he asked coolly.
“I spoke to Aunt Florence today,” she said, much to his surprise.
Connor furrowed his brow. “Oh?”
She folded her arms. “We had a rather disturbing conversation…”
Utter relief poured through him as she embarked on her unexpected topic—so much so that he almost couldn’t concentrate at first on the shocking details of what she’d been told.
She carefully recounted Aunt Florence’s secrets as the minutes passed, and soon left Connor flabbergasted.
He stared at her, incredulous. “I don’t believe it… Aunt Lucinda lied to me? She lied to my face?”
Maggie nodded. “According to Aunt Florence, she did. She claims she heard the whole thing, and that Lucinda botched the timing of when this all happened—that it was before her husband’s death, not after—as I told you. And then she left out the entire part about the brigands.”
“Brigands… No, she didn’t mention that little detail at all.” Leaning one shoulder against the nearest bedpost, Connor stared unseeingly across the shadowed room, his thoughts swirling. “So this has nothing to do with the blackmail itself, then.”
“It would seem so,” Maggie said grimly. “Lucinda hired those ruffians to tell the blackmailers their scheme was over, and someone got killed. That’s what all this is about. But who?” She shrugged. “Aunt Florence did not know, and I have no idea.”
Connor stared at Maggie as the pieces finally started fitting together. “Rory had heard Flynn had a younger son. He died a couple of years ago.”
“That timing sounds about right. Didn’t Granduncle Charles die about two years ago?”
“Aye,” he said. “Of natural causes,” he added sarcastically, shaking his head as he pushed away from the bedpost. “So that’s why he’s killing us. It’s all revenge.”
“It would seem so,” Maggie said softly. “I’ve been waiting all day to tell you this. I hope the delay did not cause a problem.”
“No, not at all.” He raked his fingers through his hair, head down in thought. “Damn, though, this changes everything.”
“How so?” Maggie finally sat, perching on the slender wooden chair by the wall.
“At least it explains his persistence. This Seth fellow. He’s avenging his brother. Flynn’s avenging his son. But why come after me instead of Lucinda? Not that I want him to, of course, but she is the one responsible. I sure as hell had nothing to do with it.”
“Maybe he’s saving her for last,” Maggie said in a dark tone.
Connor stifled a curse. “Maybe so. Aye, I’ll b
et you’re right. God, what a debacle. I had a feeling she still wasn’t being completely honest with me.”
“Well, you were right. But, Connor, if you do decide to confront her, please try to keep Aunt Florence’s name out of it, will you? The poor thing’s terrified of Lucinda.”
“Aren’t we all?” he muttered, then sighed. “I’m not sure there’s any point in confronting the woman if all she’s going to do is lie. Maybe it’s just as well to spare Aunt Florence the headache.”
They both fell silent.
Then Connor spoke, now that his astonishment was fading. “By the way, how did you get on with the dragon in the carriage today?”
Maggie smiled ruefully. “Better than expected. Still, I shall sleep well tonight. With all due respect, that woman wore me out.”
They chuckled, sharing a warm gaze for a moment.
Then another thunderclap banged at the manor’s ancient rooftop, and Maggie jumped like a child.
She frowned at him and rose, crossing to peer anxiously out the large window. “I really don’t want you going out there.”
“I’ll be fine.” Connor followed, staring at her silhouette framed against the flashes of blue lightning.
“It’s dangerous,” she said as he came up behind her. “Maybe you could just wait a little while until it dies down.”
“Ah, don’t worry about me, love.” He touched her shoulder to soothe her. The velvet texture of her dressing gown cradled his fingers. In spite of himself, he wondered what she had on beneath it.
Maybe nothing. His mouth watered at the thought, though he knew that his good little Maggie was no doubt draped in something warm, clean, and sensible under there.
God, he loved her.
She turned around and caught him adoring her. Her cheeks brightened as she read his thoughts in his stare. At once, she lowered her lashes demurely, but the pink tip of her tongue darted out between her lips, enticing him all the more.
He could think of one reason to delay going out there…
“Ahem. Well,” she mumbled, “I probably shouldn’t stay. I’m sure all three of your aunts would be scandalized if they knew I was here, especially the vicar-duke’s wife. So I shall bid you a good evening, Your Grace. Do please be safe out there.”