Rain continued to beat down, forming the sides of the pit into ever smoother walls, ever less conducive for climbing. He growled and leaped up, stretching his arms to pull himself free.
A few times his fingers brushed the top of the abyss, yet each time he plummeted back down to the muddy base. His arm throbbed. He did not see how he could escape the pit without the aid of his arm. His stomach sank. Blast. He cursed his decision to wander from his castle.
He sank onto the ground, his attire stained. Well. Wasn’t that why people wore light colors? To assert their wealth? And their power to either make somebody beat any stains from the offending garment or fling it away.
I’ll look ridiculous coming back, if I’m fortunate enough to wander back. The ache in his arm remained constant, growing more forceful. He untied his neckcloth with a grunt, folded the material into an inelegant triangular shape, and formed his own sling.
The patter of rain kept him from succumbing to unconsciousness. Dirt and grime bore into his skin, and he slicked his hand through wet strands of hair. The chilly air and water stung his eyes.
A dull ache in his chest spread through him. Etienne had been dirty and soaked and miserable. And he had offered Etienne little relief, had scoffed at the idea he should.
Geoffrey braced himself against the side of the pit and shouted. And shouted. And shouted.
His voice bellowed through the trees, but no rescue appeared. The castle is too remote.
His uncle banned people breaching the estate, accusing any local who wandered onto his land of poaching the animals. Anger coursed through him. Etienne was a poacher. Likely, he had dug this pit, hoping for a deer to fall into it.
Geoffrey eyed the walls again. The sides crumbled against his hand, the soil loose, though thankfully two of the sides were stronger. Perhaps he might dig a ladder into them with his hands, or construct a tower with the loose mud he could climb out of?
His voice was hoarse; he couldn’t spend the entire time screaming, and while singing might make him be heard, the only songs he knew were hymns and drunken ballads, and they would be more likely to frighten someone away than usher them closer.
Geoffrey huffed, cursing that the trap had to be accompanied by brutal rain, as if being in a great abyss was not sufficiently traumatizing.
He was alone. In the woods. In a great pit. In the rain. And nobody was about.
The castle had been more quiet than normal lately. He doubted any servant would go out in search for him. He rubbed his chest, thinking about his uncle. He hoped he had not gotten into an accident as well.
He gritted his teeth and tore off his boots. He then removed his stockings, grateful they were white, attached them to his Hessians, and flung them both from the pit.
Most likely nobody would pass by. But if they did, the white color might attract their attention, and the expensive boots might make them linger. I hope.
He settled on the ground. His mind returned to Etienne. Geoffrey should have insisted he not be freed. He couldn’t permit people in his region to sell themselves for the perversity of other people. Men who sold themselves risked all manner of danger.
Men might attack the female whores they visited, but a male one? Why, a man might attack a male whore, out of a sudden surge of shame or guilt. If the whore was dead, no one would know of the person’s unnatural urges. Completely unjustified, but it happened too often. Geoffrey had pored over the few statistics that existed.
And the law, the law needed to be upheld. It wouldn’t do for people to just pick and choose the laws that suited them.
He shut his eyes and allowed himself to imagine he had accepted Etienne on his unconventional offer. The man didn’t mean it, of course. Geoffrey knew what he looked like. Big and burly. Nothing like Etienne’s delicate elegance.
Prisoners propositioned Geoffrey on occasion, but he never accepted. His duty was to punish those who wronged others.
Etienne differed from all those other men who offered desperate suggestions. The man’s interest had seemed real, complete with enlarged pupils, but that spoke more of his familiarity with offering illegal services than anything else.
Certainly, he wouldn’t be actually attracted.
At Cambridge, Geoffrey had met others with unnatural inclinations. Urges he shared, though they were unimportant, to always be ignored. If a soldier or sailor could go months without a woman, well, surely he could go without a man.
He ignored the thought that those same men might readily avail themselves of local whores who flung themselves easily into their path when war destroyed everything else around them.
The fact that he wasn’t seeking a temporary fast, but a forever fast, couldn’t be dwelt on.
He sighed. The men who found themselves in trouble at university possessed all the beauty of displaced Grecians, the ones the ancients had lovingly immortalized in marble and alabaster.
Geoffrey hardly resembled a stray Greek god. His hands were bulky, and his muscular frame was a cause of annoyance for his valet. Clothes never fit him well, and he shifted uncomfortably in them.
Etienne made drenched clothes look heavenly. He had craved to usher the man toward him, strip him, and use his entire body to warm him up. Geoffrey shut his eyes, succumbing to that vision.
Chapter Four
“I thought the magistrate would never leave,” Lansdowne said.
“Eager to search the castle?” Etienne rubbed his arms together, still stiff from his night on the floor of the cell.
“Eager to return home.” Lansdowne grinned, and his eyes shone as he stepped forward. “Etienne… It’s just as if I’ve never left. Dorothea is wonderful.”
Etienne smiled, and thrust a quick look in the direction of the door. “You should have been allowed back earlier.”
Lansdowne nodded. “I was a fool to ever join the spy network. I told the general I’m through.”
“Good.”
“He said he intended to release me from my duties that night, but…”
Etienne nodded. He understood.
Groans sounded from upstairs. They ambled up the stairs, and entered the main portion of the castle. The general’s men rifled through the castle, rummaging through drawers, and hunting under the furniture.
The general made his way to them. He scratched the back of his neck. “Ah, Etienne… Whatever happened to that package I gave you?”
Etienne frowned. “I destroyed it before I was captured.”
The general nodded. “Well…I suppose that will have to do. Next time avoid capture. Right?”
Etienne pressed his lips together. “I was rather hoping there wouldn’t be a next time. I want to resign.”
The general’s eyes narrowed. “Foolishness is not a virtue.”
Something clattered in the next room, and the general exited with haste.
Etienne shot a glance at the duke. “I thought you said you had proof Sir Ambrose led the smuggling operation?”
The duke’s mouth tightened. “We saw him. But he’s disappeared since then—frankly, I think he died when he toppled off a cliff, though we haven’t recovered his body. We want to learn the extent of his operation, and we want to find the money trail.”
Etienne nodded.
The duke slashed his hand through his chestnut hair. “Let’s let them search. It’s not my job anymore.”
Etienne tilted his head. “Then why did you come?”
Lansdowne drew his eyes together. “For you of course. Forgive me for not coming earlier. It took a while for news of your capture to reach me. Thank goodness for the loose tongues of servants. If you hadn’t helped me when I was in that cave…”
“Thank you.”
The duke shrugged. “Come on, let’s leave.”
Etienne thrust his head back at the thick walls that had held him hostage. In the daytime the place seemed innocuous. The towers that jutted out in savage shapes in the night-time appeared pleasingly arranged in the day, despite the steady patter of rain. Not that he ever wanted to se
e this place again. He had a feeling he would not be able to avoid it in his nightmares.
The duke paused before the ducal carriage. The vibrant Lansdowne crescent glistened against the ebony frame, and sumptuous velvet curtains poked from the windows.
“Let’s go.” The duke bit his lip.
A lump formed in Etienne’s throat. He gazed down at his clothes, still damp from the cell. The rough seams, unravelling stitches, everything emphasized Etienne’s poor position in society.
Lansdowne was his greatest friend. He couldn’t ride in the same carriage as him, couldn’t risk people speculating on the nature of their friendship, even though it was purely innocent.
Etienne drew in his breath, and smiled at the duke. “I would prefer to walk. Thank you though.”
The duke’s shoulders relaxed, and he exhaled. “Very well.”
Etienne waved good-bye to him. Lansdowne hadn’t been successful at masking his gratitude.
It would be unconscionable for the duke to be witnessed escorting a man known to cater to the most depraved habits of the locals. Even though the magistrate was the first person he had offered his services to since the-time-that-needed-to-be-forgotten, his reputation was known.
He sighed. He was happy for Lansdowne, so happy. But Lansdowne had been his first true friend, and now their time together had ended without warning. Etienne had spent months caring for the man while he was in hiding, but now that Lansdowne was a duke, the man couldn’t be friends with the area’s ex-whore. Their places in society varied too significantly, and Etienne had no desire to invite speculation on his dearest friend.
Etienne rounded the outside of the castle, his legs still stiff, as if they could not quite fathom that they no longer needed to be constrained to a narrow cell, no longer needed to drag chains. Etienne considered following the road back to Lyngate, but he didn’t need anyone to notice his more disheveled than normal appearance. He needed to appear strong.
Lilacs waved in the wind, hugging the gardens. Raindrops shimmered on the pastel colors and delicate formations. He ambled slowly, eyeing his surroundings as he continued to the back of the castle.
The trees beckoned. They always did. Etienne loved them all. He adored the large-trunked willow and maple trees that scattered colored leaves every autumn. The pine trees were more mysterious. People cut the branches down in the wintertime and dragged them into their homes to create Christmas garlands.
He eyed the dark green needles and inhaled the pine scent, imagining having one in his home. I’m being foolish. First, I’d need a home. Still, he picked up a fallen pinecone and ran his fingers around the brown length, marveling at the even formations.
Birds chirped in the distance, and Etienne allowed himself a deep breath. He traced the smattering of bark that lay crushed on the ground. The rain strengthened, but he closed his eyes, inhaling the scents of the forest, relieved to be free.
His mind wandered to Hammerstead. Propositioning the burly magistrate had seemed justified, but all Etienne succeeded in doing was making himself memorable in the most degrading manner. The man would always think the worst of him now—and maybe he would be right. Etienne bowed his head and hunched his shoulders, his chest aching. His hair brushed over his eyes, and he wrapped his arms around his legs, his fingers sweeping against his tattered breeches.
Etienne preferred exploring the forest, looking for food amid the acres of oak trees, padding of moss and fallen leaves, and clusters of wildflowers braving their way through the darkened woods.
Nature soothed him, the shapes and scents of flowers and plants distracting him from the horrors in his mind; nature never accused him of being an unnatural.
Not that he was unique in exploring the forest in spite Sir Ambrose’s adamant dislike of anyone encroaching on his property.
Poets wandered. Their unkempt hair, muttering lips, and foppish cravats gave away their profession. Poachers wandered too—hurried, their eyes scanning for places to trap and kill animals. Lately, the employees of Ashbury Castle wandered as well. Those brutish men, who never halted their forceful strides, irritated him. It was all very well to need to wander the woods for one’s employer, though Etienne wondered what reason that could be, but a man who did not stop occasionally and sigh at the breathtaking beauty was not one Etienne could trust.
Something white waved in the distance, catching his eye, and Etienne frowned. He rose and approached the object. His eyes widened when he recognized the white stocking. It was a stocking, he was certain now, one tied in an inelegant fashion to a Hessian—because stomping in anything not expensive would horrify the wealthy man the boot belonged to. Who would treat precious leather in such a fashion? A matching boot, similarly adorned in the absurd fashion, lay nearby.
Only two men at Ashbury Castle would wear boots like this, and Sir Ambrose was missing.
Etienne’s stomach sank, and he dragged his footsteps. Sweat formed on the back of his neck, and he scratched his chin. He contemplated leaving, scuttling into the dark corners of the forest. He was probably just interrupting a strange hunting tradition.
He had no desire to have another confrontation with the magistrate. A desire to perch one’s boots on soggy soil could signify nothing good. And everything bad.
Or maybe he needs help.
Perhaps one of the guests from Somerset Hall had wandered here. Perhaps it was not Hammerstead at all. His chest clenched; that prospect did not assuage his worry. His fingers numbed as he approached the boots. The Hessians were of good quality, and the stockings were finely knitted.
As he neared the boots, a space in the trees revealed a large pit. A long tear in the pit indicated something large had fallen into it.
His shoes sank into the fresh mud. The hole stretched before him, incongruous in the forest. How large of a deer had the poachers hoped to trap? And who in his right mind would try to poach anything on the land belonging to Sir Ambrose and his magistrate nephew?
He approached, his pace slower, dread moving through him.
Hammerstead.
The man huddled in the chasm, his dark hair mussed. Mud splattered his clothes, and his feet were bare. Eyes closed, Hammerstead’s long eyelashes fluttered downward. The man’s neckcloth was tied absurdly around his arm, presumably as a makeshift sling. The man’s shirt lay open, revealing brown hairs curled on a broad torso.
Etienne shivered, his breath quickened, and his chest twinged as his eyes studied the brawny form. Etienne hovered over the pit, his body tense, prepared to flee. He swiveled his head to the distance, the trees forming tempting hiding places where he could vanish. Hammerstead would never know. But the man was injured; no man chose to rest in a place like this.
Etienne sighed, his heart hammering, and gathered the Hessians. The silky leather pressed into his hands, speaking of another way of living. He sat and swung his legs over the pit.
He crossed and uncrossed his arms, his mouth dry. He cleared his throat.
Hammerstead’s gray eyes opened. His jaw dropped, and he scrambled upright, pushing his body against the muddy wall.
Etienne bit back a laugh. “I see you’re following the fashion.”
Hammerstead swallowed. “The fashion?”
He stared at Etienne, his eyes piercing.
Etienne forced himself to return his gaze, his heartbeat quickening. “The stockingless fashion.”
“Oh.” Hammerstead nodded and bit his lip, his eyes warmer. “Quite the latest thing. I found inspiration.”
Etienne tossed the boots to Hammerstead, his heart fluttering as the magistrate caught the awkward items in an easy motion.
Etienne averted his eyes. “Are you hurt? Apart from your arm.”
Etienne’s gaze returned to the sling, and he tapped his feet against the wall.
Hammerstead’s shoulders slumped, and his voice roughened. “I’m fine.”
“Good.”
Hammerstead frowned and rubbed a stocking between his hands. “You must be pleased to alleviate
your guilt.”
Etienne’s eyes widened. “You’re speaking nonsense.”
“Indeed?” Hammerstead lifted an eyebrow. “You trapped me. I would call that an occasion for guilt. At least in an honorable person.”
Etienne stilled.
“I couldn’t figure out why His Grace was so eager to have you released.”
“And you know now?”
Hammerstead shrugged. “Maybe he wanted you to clear all the traps you made.”
Blood roared through Etienne, but his voice was quiet. “I won’t go, but I will ignore that comment.”
“Why?”
“Because I am here to help you.”
The air thickened between them.
“Oh.” Hammerstead’s dark eyelashes fluttered closed. “You’re not here just to gawk.”
“Of course not.”
“Disappointed not to have caught a deer?”
Etienne frowned, and he clenched his teeth. “I did not trap you.”
Hammerstead turned his head away, his cheeks redder than before. Etienne suppressed the urge to run his hands through his hair and comfort him.
“Anyway, you’ve poached before. I checked.”
Etienne sighed, removing a knife from his boot.
Hammerstead’s eyes widened. “You’re not supposed to have that in prison.”
Etienne bit his lip and focused on cutting a stiff branch from a tree, and then proceeded to remove the leaves off of it. The thick branch cut into his skin as he struggled to smooth the rough texture.
“You’re not even going to defend yourself?” The man’s voice was morose. “You’re a poacher.”
Etienne settled against a tree trunk, forcing his voice to be laconic. “If I had wanted to catch a deer, I wouldn’t have caught you. This hole isn’t shaped like a deer trap.”
“Well.”
“Anyway. Are you sure I have the requisite intelligence to catch anything? If I can’t even understand the concept of a prison . . .”
The magistrate raked his hand through his hair. “I did not mean to insult you.”
Etienne raised his eyebrows.
“But really, can you blame me? How much school did you even have? Five years? Six years?”
Captured At The Castle (Scandal in Sussex Book 2) Page 4