The Companion's Secret

by Susanna Craig

  What was a little rain?

  For the first mile or so, she watched the clouds tumble toward her, listened to the peals of thunder as they swelled and grew, seemingly born of the earth as much as the air. Mud from an earlier rain dragged at her hems and sucked at the soles of her walking boots. At the second mile, she gave up the roadway in favor of the grassy verge. Cold, thick drops began to fall, speckling her dress and face. Almost before she could stuff her journal into her pelisse, the sky opened and water poured down in sheets, whipped by the wind like clothing on the line, blinding her.

  Something sharp snagged at her skirts, jabbed at the chilled flesh of her thigh beneath. The hedgerow. A flash of lightning showed her a gap in its tangled branches, barely wide enough for her to pass through. And a little way beyond it, an abandoned stone cottage. Would its thatched roof provide shelter? She could not tell until she reached it.

  Head down, she pushed onward. The wind snatched at her sodden bonnet. Nearly strangled by its ties at her throat, she scrabbled with numb fingers to loosen them. Once free, the bonnet whirled into the storm and was gone.

  The twenty yards standing between her and her goal seemed to take almost as long to travel as the two miles she had already come. At last, its stout slab door stood before her. Here, in the shadow of the low building, the wind still lashed, but it no longer threatened to carry her away. As she leaned her head against the door to fumble with the latch, she felt a movement. Not of her own making. Not the rumble of the storm, either. The door swung inward and she collapsed onto the dirt floor at the booted feet of a stranger.

  The cottage was not abandoned, after all.

  Even a cursory glance told her these were not the sort of boots generally worn by cottagers, however. The supple leather was not muddy or scuffed as it would have been if the man was a laborer or had recently trudged across the open field. Perhaps he had been traveling on horseback. Or perhaps he simply had been wise enough to take shelter before the rain began.

  Without speaking, he stepped around her to shut the door, muffling the storm’s noise and closing out its murky light, casting the single room into near darkness.

  Oh, God. This was it—her most serious error in judgment. Ever. Erica scrambled to her feet and whirled about to face him, feeling her rain-sodden skirts slap against her legs. But he was already moving past her again.

  “Wait there.” His voice was pitched low, barely audible beneath the storm.

  Gradually, her eyes were able to pick out his shape, now on the far side of the small room. A narrow seam of light formed a square on the wall behind him—a window, blocked by wooden shutters. She heard a rattle, a scrape, a hiss. Flame sparked to life in his hands then became the warm, flickering glow of a candle.

  “That blast of wind blew it out,” he explained with a glance past her at the door. Was it her imagination, or was there an accusatory note in his voice?

  The candle lit his features from below, giving them a sardonic cast. Impossible to tell whether he was handsome or plain, dark or fair, young or…well, his voice, his ease of movement certainly did not suggest an old man. And he was tall—taller than Papa. Than either of her brothers or her brother-in-law. Taller even than Henry…

  Oh, why, in this moment, had she thought of Henry? But so it always went, her mind flitting from one idea to the next, fixing on precisely the things she ought to forget, and forgetting the things she ought to—

  My journal!

  With a shudder of alarm, she slithered a hand between the wet, clinging layers of her pelisse and her dress and pulled the book from its hiding place. As she hurried toward the light, the man drew back a step. With the candle between her and her journal, so the stranger could see nothing but its binding, she turned the book over in her hands, then thumbed through its pages to assess the damage. The leather cover was damp; rain had wetted the edges of the paper here and there. It would look worn and wrinkled when it was dry, but so far as she could tell, the journal’s contents were miraculously unharmed. A sigh of relief eased from her.

  When she laid her journal on the tabletop, the candlelight once more threw itself freely around the room. The stranger was looking her up and down, his expression both incredulous and stern. A familiar expression. Cami wore it often in Erica’s presence.

  Of course she looked a mess. Who wouldn’t, under these circumstances? Icy rivulets ran from her hair down her face, and beneath the howl of the wind, she could hear the steady patter of her skirts dripping onto the floor. If this were a scene in one of those novels her sister denied reading, the hero would probably invite her to strip off her drenched clothing and dry herself before the fire. Something shocking would likely follow.

  But there was no fire. And this man showed no intention of acting the part of a hero.

  As if to confirm her thoughts, he shook his head and folded his arms across his chest. “What in God’s name are you doing out in a storm like this?”

  * * * *

  When Major Lord Tristan Laurens asked a question, he expected an answer. He certainly did not expect the subject of his interrogation to bristle, fling a lock of wet hair over her shoulder—spraying him with rainwater, almost dousing the candle—and reply, “I might ask you the same.”

  Unblinking, she faced him across the table, communicating quite clearly that if he was waiting for her to bend first, he might wait forever. He had some experience coaxing information from unwilling sources, and he knew better than to begin by barking at them. But her arrival had caught him off guard. He had never liked surprises.

  The silence that stretched between them was eventually broken by her fingers drumming against the cover of the book she’d unearthed from her bodice. She radiated a kind of nervous energy that refused to be contained. When another moment had passed, she plucked up the book, tucked it against her breast, and began to move around the room. Its narrow compass, crowded with ramshackle furniture, prevented her from pacing.

  Or perhaps the predictable, orderly, back and forth motion of pacing was anathema to this woman.

  She put him in mind of a bedraggled spaniel, with her slight build, rapid movements, and curling hair hanging limply on either side of her face. Though, admittedly, far more attractive than any spaniel he had ever seen. The precise shade of her red hair was difficult to determine under such dim and damp conditions. He tried to imagine what she might look light bathed in the warmth of a shaft of sunlight, but gave it up as a bad job. Sunlight was unlikely to be granted them anytime soon.

  When her wandering feet brought her within arm’s length of him, he held up one hand in hopes she might cease. Her jerk of surprise made him wonder if she had forgotten his presence entirely.

  “The storm doesn’t show any signs of abating. Perhaps we ought to begin again.” He made a crisp bow. “Tristan Laurens.”

  Her gaze raked over him, and for a moment, he thought she meant not to respond. “Mr. Laurens,” she said after a moment and curtsied.

  Ought he to correct her? At the very least, he might have introduced himself as “Major Laurens,” as he’d not yet resigned his commission. “Lord Tristan” was entirely incorrect now, of course. Both Father and Percy were gone, had been gone for some time. Still, it felt strange to think of himself as a duke, stranger still to call himself Raynham. Men of seven and twenty did not usually acquire new identities in quite so abrupt a fashion.

  In the end, he let her assumption stand. After the weather cleared, they would go their separate ways, and his rank would be irrelevant.

  Her fingertips danced over the book she was holding. “I am Erica Burke.”

  “Erica?” It was not a name he had heard before.

  “Erica is the Latin word denoting the genus to which several common species of flowering shrubs belong.” His surprise at the explanation must have been evident on his face, for she continued, with a little grimace of resignation, “Heather. It m
eans heather. My father named his children using Linnaeus’s Species Plantarum as his guide.”

  Her Irish accent was distinct but not unpleasant. From Dublin, if he had to guess. And though he suspected her of having given a variation of that explanation many times, it did not have the air of a rehearsed speech. So she knew at least a bit of Latin and a little botany. An educated woman, then. A bluestocking? A pedant?

  Or something more unusual, and more interesting, than either?

  Though mildly curious about her siblings’ names, he focused his concern on the fact that her family had let one of their number out of their sight. A young woman wandering about alone faced dangers far greater than a little rain, especially in a time of war, when so many were desperate.

  Having learned his lesson about speaking sternly, however, he dipped his head in a nod of greeting. “It is a pleasure, Miss Burke, to meet someone else who has known the travails of having been named by an eccentric father. Mine was a student of the Arthurian legends.”

  That confession brought the twitch of a smile to her lips, quickly wiped away by a crack of thunder that shook the tiny cottage. “Oh, will this storm never end?” She began once more to move about the room, like a caged bird flitting from perch to perch.

  “It will, of course.” He tried to speak in a soothing tone, though it was not something he’d often had occasion to use in the army. “But I think we must resign ourselves to the fact that darkness may fall before it does.”

  “You mean, we must spend the night? Here?” A panicky sigh whooshed from her lungs as she sank onto a wooden chair. “Oh, when my sister discovers I’m missing, she’ll be furious.”

  Furious? Not worried?

  Seizing the opportunity, he righted her chair’s partner—though they matched only in being equally rickety—and seated himself near her. “You are traveling with your sister? How did you come to be separated?”

  “We—my sister, her husband, and I—are bound for Windermere. Their wedding trip. There are two coaches in our party, and I believe the occupants of each must have thought me safely aboard the other. But I had—” She leaped up again, fingering the leather-bound book.

  Dutifully, he got to his feet, as good manners dictated. He had not been away from polite society long enough to forget everything he’d learned. “I’m sure she will be too relieved to discover you are safe to upbraid you.”

  The candle’s flickering light painted her face with shadow. Was she amused? Skeptical? “It’s quite clear, sir, that you do not know my sister.”

  “No. I do not believe I have that pleasure.”

  She laughed, a rather wry sound, and sat down again. So did he. A moment later, she was up, trying to peer through the narrow crack around the shutters. “How long will it take for them to reach Windermere?”

  “They were driving into the storm,” he answered as he rose. “Several hours, perhaps, for although it’s not a great distance, fifteen miles or so, the roads in that direction are prone to flooding.” She turned from the window and a wrinkle of concern darted across her brow. “I expect they stopped somewhere along the way to wait out the rain,” he added, trying to reassure her.

  “Oh.” Once more, she sank onto a chair. This time, he remained on his feet—wisely, it turned out, for she soon resumed her erratic wandering. “But then, mightn’t they have returned to that village a few miles back, expecting to find me? I have to go.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  The commanding note brought her to an abrupt halt. Her mouth popped open, preparing to issue an argument.

  “I will personally see you safely reunited with your sister as soon as possible, Miss Burke.” Already, he feared he would regret making such a promise. “In turn, you will not put yourself at unnecessary risk.”

  Her parted lips pressed themselves into a thin line, and she sat, nearly toppling the chair with the force of her frustration.

  This time, she stayed seated long enough that he began to think of returning to his own chair. Hardly had his knees bent, however, when she uncrossed her arms and laid one hand on the edge of her seat to rise. His awkward position—caught between sitting and standing—must have caught her attention, for she waved him down with her free hand, the one not clutching her book.

  “I know it’s the custom for a gentleman to stand when a lady does, but you’ll do yourself an injury if you try to keep up with me.” Three of her quick steps put the breadth of the deal table between them. The candle lit her face, revealing a scattering of freckles. “I’ve never been noted for my ladylike behavior, if you hadn’t already guessed. So why should you worry about acting the gentleman? Not that I doubt you are a gentleman, Mr. Laurens,” she added hastily, looking him up and down where he stood. Color infused her cheeks. “And I certainly hope you will not take my thoughtless remark as a license to—well—”

  “Miss Burke.” He stepped into the river of words, hoping to divert their course. “You may rest assured, I am a gentleman. You’re far safer in here than you would be on the other side of that door.”

  Her nod of acknowledgment was quick, a trifle jerky, and he realized she was trembling. Now that the heat of the blush had left her face, he could see more clearly the bluish cast of her lips. “Come,” he said, moving both chairs closer to the table, closer to the meager warmth offered by the candle. “Take off that soaked pelisse.”

  That order sent another flare of uncertainty through her eyes. But after a moment, she laid her book on the table and attempted to comply, though her fingers shook. The dress beneath was nearly as wet and clung provocatively to her curves. He took the sodden pelisse from her hands and quickly turned away. On a rusty hook near the door hung his greatcoat. After making a simple exchange of wet garment for dry, he returned to her side.

  Once enveloped by his greatcoat’s length and breadth, she allowed herself to be guided to a chair. “I’m afraid I dare not build a fire,” he explained as he took the place across from her. “The chimney looks on the verge of collapse.” Indeed, some of its uppermost stones had tumbled down through the flue into the firebox. They lay glistening in the candlelight as rain trickled over them and damp air seeped into the room.

  The candle gave at least the illusion of heat, though he knew, and she must too, that it would not last until dawn. It was only September. They were in no danger of freezing to death. But it promised to be a miserable night.

  “You should try to get some rest,” he urged.

  For once, she did not argue. Laying one arm on the tabletop, she used it to pillow her head. With one finger of the other hand, she traced the tooled leather binding of her book. “Thank y-y-you,” she stuttered through another shiver masked as a yawn. “It has been a tiring day.”

  “Yes,” he agreed automatically.

  Except he wasn’t tired. He’d ridden a good distance since morning, it was true, but today’s exertion was nothing to what he had known in recent years. But if it wasn’t fatigue that had prompted him to take shelter when the storm clouds rose, then what was it? Major Lord Tristan Laurens would have spurred his horse to a gallop, outrun those clouds, and made it home before nightfall, no matter how tired.

  Raynham, on the other hand, was not so eager to reach Hawesdale Chase.

  Crossing his legs at the ankle, he leaned back in his chair and prepared to pass an uncomfortable few hours. Rain continued to fall steadily, though the thunder now rolled farther off. Erica’s restive hand at last fell still, but even in her sleep, she still guarded her book. It made him wonder what was inside. Already the candle’s heat had begun to dry her hair, transforming its tangled waves from rusty brown to polished copper. He had no notion of what had become of her bonnet, or even if she had been wearing one at all. She had no gloves, either, and her nails were short and ragged. I’ve never been noted for my ladylike behavior, she had told him, with only the merest hint of chagrin. He did not envy the sister who
had been charged with her keeping.

  Yet he could not truthfully say he was sorry for an excuse to stay put a few hours more.

  In this captivating new series set in Georgian England, a disgraced woman hides from her marriage—for better or worse…

  Sarah Pevensey had hoped her arranged marriage to St. John Sutliffe, Viscount Fairfax, could become something more. But almost before it began, it ended in a scandal that shocked London society. Accused of being a jewel thief, Sarah fled to a small fishing village to rebuild her life.

  The last time St. John saw his new wife, she was nestled in the lap of a soldier, disheveled, and no longer in possession of his family’s heirloom sapphire necklace. Now, three years later, he has located Sarah and is determined she pay for her crimes. But the woman he finds is far from what he expected. Humble and hardworking, Sarah has nothing to hide from her husband—or so it appears. Yet as he attempts to woo her to uncover her secrets, St. John soon realizes that if he’s not careful, she’ll steal his heart…

  Susanna Craig’s dazzling series set in Georgian England sails to the Caribbean—where a willful young woman and a worldly man do their best to run every which way but towards each other…

  After her beloved father dies, Tempest Holderin wants nothing more than to fulfill his wish to free the slaves on their Antiguan sugar plantation. But the now wealthy woman finds herself pursued by a pack of unsavory suitors with other plans for her inheritance. To keep her from danger, her dearest friend arranges a most unconventional solution: have Tempest kidnapped and taken to safety.

  Captain Andrew Corrvan has an unseemly reputation as a ruthless, money-hungry blackguard—but those on his ship know differently. He is driven by only one thing: the quest to avenge his father’s death on the high seas. Until he agrees to abduct a headstrong heiress…

  If traveling for weeks—without a chaperone—isn’t enough to ruin Tempest, the desire she feels for her dark and dangerously attractive captor will do the rest. The storm brewing between them will only gather strength when they reach England, where past and present perils threaten to tear them apart—even more so than their own stubborn hearts…