by Deb Marlowe
She thought about that answer, began to piece together small hints and ideas. “There’s something she doesn’t know, isn’t there?”
He nodded. “It’s serious, but not fatal, I believe. He’s made up his mind to tell her today.”
Which brought her mission firmly back in mind. “Let’s hurry and catch the rest of them up, then.”
“Hold a moment. I think it’s time we shared strategies. I know you were up to something with that footman.”
“Because you were up to something with his counterpart on the other side?”
He chuckled. Cheeky chit. “Yes.”
“You’ll tell if I do?”
He nodded again.
She drew a deep breath. “Felicity and Peter entered the maze early. I bribed the footman to guide them speedily to the center so that they could have some quiet time along together. Jane and I were to slow the others.”
He laughed harder. “No need to hurry then. I suspected they were already in here. I bribed the other footman to confuse the rest of them and slow their progress.”
He looked happy. Carefree in a way that she hadn’t seen. The smile lingered on his face. Her insides seized up, gone all tight and still. She liked the lightening of his hard gaze, wished she could see it again and again.
If things were different . . .
“We should go,” she whispered.
His smile faded. Time hung suspended while she watched the beat of his pulse start up, gratifyingly quick, beneath his jaw.
He took a step forward at the same instant that she stepped back. Their breath danced a similar duet. Together, yet apart.
She shook her head. No. Not again. By his own admission he was not for her. She backed away until her shoulder pressed against the hedge, a branch digging into tender skin—
And she tumbled backward as something gave way. Her arms windmilled and she worked to catch herself, struggling in a most ungraceful manner. She slipped through into a space that shouldn’t be there and before her, a hidden door made of living hedge swung back into place.
She staggered to a halt as Brodham pushed in, his face lit with curiosity—and an unwise bit of amusement.
“What is this?” she demanded.
“One of Lady Ashburn’s little tricks,” he answered.
“Little being the operative word,” she said, looking around. It was a tiny room. The walls were as high as the rest, the space maybe six strides across at one end and perhaps three strides at the other. It was invisible from the outside. Someone could stand just outside and never know they were there, unless they made a noise.
Neither of them made a noise.
Liberty bit her lip and stared. This was it. The moment was alive with promise and potential, the air electric with all the hope and expectation in her heart. The hairs on her neck and arms rose. The fog of battle and confusion had lifted. Now was the time, his chance.
Staring, trembling, waiting—all exercises in eternity.
He stood utterly still. Unreadable.
Heat flooded her cheeks. With a sickening, falling sense of despair she realized he was not going to move or speak.
She couldn’t let the silence go on, couldn’t endure another moment of wasted desire. She pushed past him, aiming for the door.
“Wait.” He reached for her.
She spun away, suddenly furious. “Let me pass,” she hissed. “It is obvious that this place is neither comfortable for me nor safe for you.”
“No.” His arm shot out and blocked her access to the swinging green door. “You don’t get to throw that at me again. Not when you’ve stolen them both from me.”
Good. She wanted to shout it at him. She didn’t ever want him to feel safe or comfortable or easy or happy again—not without her at his side.
She couldn’t say it. She didn’t have to. Breathing heavily, he pressed her back again until she came up against the hedge. The prickling sensation was quickly drowned out by the stir of his breath on her temple, then on her nape.
His grip on her tightened. Her arms went up. Slowly, he leaned down. Too slowly. She made a strangled sound and his eyebrows shot up even as he lowered his head to press a kiss against her lips.
Soft and warm. Slow and lazy. It was not enough. She stood on her toes and pushed closer, demanded more.
She’d flipped a latch. Just like that everything went from slow burning desire to fervent, unleashed hunger. His hands slid up and up until they dug furrows into her coiffure. A good thing, because her head went back and the kiss surged deep and only the cradle of his fingers kept her upright.
This, she realized. This was the way a woman sometimes had to talk to a man. All the things she couldn’t say flared clear and hot, messages sent in the burning of lips and tongue and in low, soft moans.
He shifted her head to the side, sent his mouth gliding along the length of her throat. Her pulse beat so violently she could feel it. He followed the call, nuzzling his tongue under her jaw, beneath her ear and in the shivery hollow at the base of her neck.
She trembled harder now, but she felt so joyous and right and alive as his hands snaked out of her hair and slid down her arms. She gasped when they shifted again and cupped her breasts. His mouth moved downward to meet them, leaving hot trails on her skin until he met the barrier of lace at the top of her bodice.
She let out a low moan of frustration—and suddenly froze as he abruptly straightened and pressed a hand over her mouth.
She stiffened in outrage—and then heard what he had—her name called somewhere beyond the hedge at her back.
The call came again. She recognized the slightly nasal tones of Sir Benjamin.
“Miss Baylis? Come out now.” Surely he had stopped directly behind her. “Before it’s too late.”
“Sir Benjamin!” Jane’s voice sounded now, from a further distance away. “I was afraid we’d lost you. Lord Ashburn is leading us now, so we won’t be so confuddled. Come along? He’s also sharing some very interesting tidbits about the construction of the maze.”
“I know I heard her voice,” Sir Benjamin insisted. “Miss Baylis is here somewhere. I saw your face Miss Tillney, you heard it too!”
“Sound carries strangely in here, sir. Mr. Gardiner and Miss Carmichael are ahead of us somewhere, I’m sure Miss Baylis is with them as well.”
“She’s nearby. Somewhere. I know it.”
“Good heavens, but the intensity of your interest surprises me, Sir Benjamin. I know you are acquainted with my friend, but you’ve shown no such attention to her before now.”
“I had to convince the family to come around on the idea of an American heiress, don’t you know. And why go to the effort if she was not going to take?”
“So you thought you’d see if she would sink or swim?” Jane’s tone had taken a dark turn with which Liberty felt entirely sympathetic. “And now you’ll deign to court her?”
“She’s raised a few eyebrows, it’s true, but none more than you, eh, Miss Tillney? Vickers says she’s a taking little thing for an American and Brodham certainly seems interested.”
Liberty’s gaze flew to meet the viscount’s. She felt sure he could feel the heated flush growing over her cheeks.
Suddenly a feminine cry rang out. It sounded faint, but was quickly echoed with other excited, distressed calls.
“Jane?” Louder this time and undoubtedly Lord Worthe. “You’d better come, my dear.”
“Blast,” said Sir Benjamin, still right behind Liberty’s back. “I hope that girl hasn’t blotted her copybook right when I meant to have her.”
She heard him and Jane move off, and heard the far off ruckus grow louder. Brodham still had his hand over her mouth and he’d stiffened at the first troubled noises.
She tugged his hand away. His eyes were lifted and focused far away, as if he could see what incident had stirred them all up.
“If Peter and Felicity were merely announcing their betrothal, it would be a happier sound,” she worried.
He nodded.
“We should go.” She slid around him and toward the swinging door. “Brodham?” He hadn’t moved.
“Yes. I’m coming.” He wouldn’t look at her. His voice sounded as distant as his gaze looked.
Dread, cold and unrelenting, filled her belly. “I’m going.” She left, letting the sound of excited conversation guide her. It felt as if a pit of despair had opened beneath her and she walked a tightrope toward her doom.
She made several wrong turns, but found her way eventually to the center chamber. The soft light and gently drifting branches of the willows there belied the confusion on some of the faces gathered about, and the sly animation on others. Heads were bent together. Some people whispered while others called for action. Behind her, Brodham arrived.
Jane stood at one of the benches, a piece of parchment in her hand. She held it out to Liberty.
On slow feet she moved to take it. One scrawling note in a bold hand covered most of the page. She looked at Brodham’s bloodless expression and read it out loud.
You were right. About most everything. We cannot wait. Have to do this right and want to do it now. Heading North. Follow your own advice, will you?
In one corner, a smaller, more delicate hand had written something.
Thank you for everything, Miss Baylis. Your help has assured our happiness.
“What does it mean?” someone asked.
“Gretna Green!” Sir Benjamin answered. “Heading north, it said. For the Scottish border. What else?”
Titillated chatter broke out all around.
“Did you aid them, Miss Baylis,” Sir Benjamin demanded. “Is that what you’ve been up to? It’s not as bad as it might have been, I suppose.”
She jerked her gaze to his. “No, sir. It might have been as bad as lavish promises left unfulfilled.”
He sputtered in response. Everyone ignored him.
“That’s not what it means,” Jane insisted. “Miss Carmichael would not elope.”
What did it mean to Brodham? That’s what Liberty wanted to know. He’d sunk down onto the other bench, his hands locked behind his head, after she read the first part of the note.
“Not Gretna,” he said now, to his knees. “Cumberland. That’s all. They’re going to her family.”
“Of course,” Jane said. “Mr. Gardiner must have proposed. They must wish to clear it with the girl’s mother.”
Liberty approached Brodham and held out the note. “Here. It was meant for you.”
He didn’t answer, didn’t move to take it. He would not even look up at her.
She blinked back tears. He was shutting her out again. She’d done what she’d shouldn’t, pushed him too far, expected too much.
Jane reached to take her hand. “Perhaps we should take Charlotte home. Someone should notify Lady Ridgley.”
Liberty waited a moment. Brodham never moved. He just sat there, breathing deep.
Waiting for her to depart?
“Yes,” she said at last. “I believe the battles have all been fought. The war is over. Let’s go.”
Chapter Eight
Cateswood’s stables were not in good shape. Old, shabby and warped, they didn’t match his memories. Casualties of so many years the family had spent elsewhere, neither did they match the visions he’d been having since he got back, fleeting images of his children and their children, thriving here, enjoying the improvements he meant to make, carrying on the careful management he meant to begin.
A lovely idea. He was enamored of it. Only one thing spoiled it. Young or old, boy or girl, in his mind, all the children laughed up at him through clear, green eyes.
He cursed under his breath. “Tear it down,” he said curtly.
Beside him, his land manager started. “Sir?”
Brodham knew what he wanted. He’d seen the most modern stables in the world, traveling in Austria and Spain. Clean and spacious, with smooth courtyards and strong stone walls.
He turned to his agent. “There are men in the villages looking for work, yes?”
The man nodded.
“Hire them. Divide them into crews. One can build temporary stables in the old hay barn at the back pasturage. The other can demolish this.” He waved a hand. “I know a man who can build us the best stables in England.” He paused. “I’m going to go write to him, right now.”
“Very good, sir.”
They all thought he was a little mad. He contemplated it as he strode back to the house. Most of the servants at Cateswood had by now looked at him as if he was a bit touched in the head.
They were right.
He had many ideas, but he couldn’t settle to one. His thoughts had become fragmented, his temper frayed, his vision of the place disjointed. He’d longed for nothing but to come back here and now he contemplated leaving every single morning.
The place felt empty.
He felt alone—and he wasn’t enjoying it the way he had expected to.
He was lonely. Bereft.
He went to his study, pulled out paper and sat down to write Hans. Halfway finished, he looked up and was distracted by the plans for repairs to the west wing. Rising, he added several notes. Ten minutes later he was still staring, unseeing, when a voice startled him from his reverie.
“Simon.”
He jerked around. “Peter!”
They met halfway and pounded each other on the back. “Married, are you?” he asked his nephew.
“Yes.” Peter beamed. “Although it took a bit of doing.”
They moved to the chairs perched before a plate window. “So, Cumberland. How bad was it?”
“More difficult than I imagined,” Peter sighed. “Oh, not Felicity,” he rushed to reassure. “I told her everything and she took the news like a good soldier—she actually grew quite indignant on my behalf. I knew right then. Every doubt disappeared. We didn’t want to wait, but I wanted to make things right with her mother.”
“And you did.”
“Eventually, after a bit of cajolery, more flattery and the promise of a dower house near to us. We were married in Carlisle with all maternal blessings.”
“Good. That’s good.”
“Simon,” Peter said gently and Brodham realized he’d drifted again.
“I hear that this time it is you who have been lost these last weeks. Jealous, were you? Had to take a turn?”
“Don’t be fanciful. I’ve only been . . .”
“A mess?”
He considered getting angry. Tried to summon up a hearty denial. He raised his head, opened his mouth—and then slumped in his chair.
“God, Peter. Such a mess. And I’ve done you a grave disservice.”
“Tell me. You’ll feel better.”
“It’s her. Liberty. She . . . looses my anchors. Sets me adrift.”
“Yet, you liked it,” Peter said with narrowed eyes.
“More every time. But it’s dangerous. I forget myself, forget to hold on. And that day, in the maze. When they discovered you gone, we were still near the edge of the maze. Even from there we could hear the shout of alarm. The confusion and urgency.”
Peter thought a moment. “Ah, I see.” He sighed. “You heard an uproar and thought I’d snapped at last.” He shrugged. “It makes sense. God knows Mother’s worried over it long enough and you’ve watched me closely all these years, just waiting for something bad to happen.”
“I’m sorry, lad. I should have known better. I was so far gone myself, it was suddenly easy to believe it of you—and it damned near scared me to death.” He dug his fingers into his temples and leaned over. “I reacted badly at every turn. I bollixed the whole thing up, I’m afraid. She’ll never forgive me.”
“She will. Listen, I’ve talked the whole thing over with Felicity, at length. And I’ve reached some conclusions.” He leaned in. “It was him. It didn’t affect your father. It hasn’t affected you. It won’t affect me. I refuse to live in fear any longer.”
If he hadn’t been so distraught
, Brodham would have filled with pride.
Peter stood. “You know what I’m going to do?”
“What?”
“I’m going to get angry. Good and mad, any time it’s warranted. And God in heaven, but it’s going to feel good.”
Somewhere, Brodham found a smile.
“For so long I’ve swallowed it down. All of it. Any sign of temper or irritation or rage. I didn’t wish to scare my Mother or upset you. Hell, I remember those ugly times, too. I didn’t want to go down that path. But I trust myself. Felicity trusts me. I’m fine. So I’m going to loose the reins. I’m going to allow myself to feel.” He flexed a hand. “In fact, I may just dredge up some old bitterness and settle a score or two.”
Peter grew serious. “And you—you’re worse than me. You’ve locked everything down. It’s time you let yourself feel again, Simon. It’s time to be happy.”
“No, I’m afraid it’s too late.”
“It’s not.” His nephew sauntered to the desk and picked up a quill. “Felicity has it all worked out.”
Chapter Nine
One hundred pieces of Portugese silver. They had been a gift from a wealthy family to the Englishmen who helped them, and someone had donated them to her mother’s cause. They were currently clean, polished and spread out upon the dining room table. Liberty picked up the thirty-ninth piece, a long handled spoon, and wrapped it in old linen. She placed it in a straw-packed crate and added a spread of newspaper over the full layer before starting another one.
Sighing, she glared at the tightly drawn drapes, but she didn’t bother getting up to open them. She was tired of fighting. It never got one anything, anyway.
The knocker sounded downstairs, but she kept wrapping. She didn’t stop until the forty-fifth piece, when she noticed Harris in the doorway, a newspaper clutched to her bosom and a strange look upon her face.
“Are those for the wrapping?” she asked the maid. “There’s a pile in the corner.”