by Brenda Hiatt
No. He had made Dina a promise. He would not break it at the very first opportunity. She had made it abundantly clear that she had not the least desire for any of the physical aspects of marriage, and he was very nearly certain he felt the same. It was only the darkness and his sleep-fogged mind that suggested anything else.
He'd only had about four hours' sleep over the past forty-eight hours. That was enough to make any man's thinking fuzzy. A good night's sleep would put everything back into its proper perspective, he was sure.
Dina shifted slightly and let out a soft sigh —and immediately he was aroused again. Shouldn't exhaustion keep that from happening? Disgusted at himself, he punched his pillow. It made almost no sound, but a moment later he felt something soft touch his face. Was she—? No, there was another touch, then another.
He put a hand to his face and felt small bits of softness on his cheek. Feathers! Behind him, Dina sneezed. "What on earth—?" she mumbled.
"I, ah, seem to have damaged my pillow." He felt like an idiot. "It appears to have been no more stable than the bed."
"Oh. That is . . . ah . . ." Her voice trailed off into a sort of choking sound.
He sat up in alarm. He'd heard of people who had adverse reactions to feathers, who could even be incapacitated by them. "Dina, are you all right?"
"I'm . . . I'm fine. Oh, bother." She made another odd noise. Even more worried, he reached for her, but before he made contact, she suddenly let loose with a peal of laughter. "Oh, I'm sorry. It's just, after all that has happened today . . . your poor pillow!"
Thor felt his own lips twitching, the humor in their situation striking him as well. Perhaps exhaustion was making him giddy, but the whole thing suddenly seemed hilarious —the capping absurdity of a bizarre day. His chuckle turned into a full-throated laugh as feathers continued to drift down upon them both.
"It has been rather a trying day," he was finally able to gasp, "but that's no excuse for my assaulting a defenseless pillow."
She giggled in the darkness, an oddly appealing sound. "I'm glad to hear that you don't regard your outburst of violence as justified, as I can't help feeling the poor pillow was my proxy."
Her words sobered him at once. "I hope you don't think for a moment that I've contemplated the slightest violence against you, Dina —or that I would ever do so."
"Well . . . I have rather disrupted your life, have I not? It would not be remarkable if you felt a desire to retaliate for such interference. Not to mention that I nearly let you spend the night on a little strip of bare boards." She chuckled again, but Thor was frowning into the darkness.
"I agreed to marry you of my own free will, as I swore to Mr. Elliot in Gretna. To retaliate against you now, particularly physically, would be a despicable act, and one of which I'd like to think I'm incapable." What sort of men had she been around, that she might expect such a thing?
She was silent for a moment, his seriousness apparently having subdued her laughter. "I . . . I was jesting," she said in a small voice. "But thank you."
"We'd better get to sleep." He couldn't bring himself to acknowledge her thanks, unnecessary as it was. Folding the split end of his pillow shut, he carefully lay down on it again.
When she'd exhibited fear of him that morning —quickly concealed, he had to admit —he had attributed it to his size and the towering temper he'd been in. Surely, that would have frightened anyone, at least momentarily. But what if there were more to Dina's fear than that? Had her father or brother ever lashed out at her physically?
The thought made him vaguely ill. She was so tiny, so defenseless, so . . . fragile. But perhaps he was wrong. It was late and he was beyond tired. He could be reading things into her behavior that were not actually there.
Still, when they reached Ashcombe, he would keep a close eye on Silas Moore, and particularly on his treatment of his sister.
With that resolve settled in his mind, Thor finally fell into a deep, dreamless sleep that lasted until Violet knocked on the door, well after daybreak.
Dina sat up with a start, then snatched the covers to her chest as she realized just how compromising her situation was. No, not compromising, since Mr. Turpin was her lawful husband, but definitely . . . vulnerable.
"Are you two awake?" came Violet's voice through the door. "I thought we wanted to get an early start."
"Just a moment," Mr. Turpin called back. While Dina averted her eyes, he pulled on his trousers, stockings and shirt, then padded across to the door. The moment he turned the handle, Violet poked her head in.
"Happy birthday, Dina," she began, then broke off with a giggle. "My goodness! Look at all those feathers. Dare I ask—?"
Dina felt her face flaming, though she tried for an unconcerned smile. It must be obvious, at the very least, that they had shared the bed.
"No, you may not," Mr. Turpin interrupted his sister dampeningly. "Is there a report from the wheelwright yet?"
"I don't know. I was just on my way downstairs," Violet replied, her eyes still dancing.
"Give me half a moment and I'll join you." Sitting on the foot of the bed, he pulled on his boots, then donned his jacket. "Breakfast should be ready by the time you come down," he said to Dina in a tone that was almost tender —or did she imagine that?
Violet looked from one to the other. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather—?"
"Let's go." He cut her off again. With one last, backward glance at Dina, he closed the door behind them, but not before Violet sent her a saucy wink that had her face flaming again.
The moment she was alone, Dina scrambled into her clothes, dusting feathers off of her gown as she buttoned it up the front. If not for those tiny white reminders, she might almost have believed the laughter of the night before was a dream. Would it have been better if it were? She wasn't sure.
It had shown her another side of Mr. Turpin, a softer side, despite his small outburst of violence against the pillow. After laughing with him and then talking with him afterward, she didn't think she would ever feel afraid of him again. That was a good thing, of course, but it had also softened her feelings toward him, which could be dangerous —to her own peace of mind, at least.
"Don't be absurd," she said aloud to the empty room. Simply because he was proving to be a kind man didn't mean she was going to develop tender feelings for him. That would be the height of stupidity, since she'd promised to make no wifely demands upon him—a promise he had readily accepted.
It simply meant that they might deal comfortably with each other, she told herself, like civilized people. That should make life far more pleasant than she'd been used to with first her father's and then Silas's unpredictable tempers.
Taking what satisfaction she could from this reflection, she finished lacing her boots and went downstairs.
As they went in to breakfast, Mr. DiMartino arrived to inform them that he had indeed managed to repair the carriage wheel. Dina couldn't help noticing the flirtatious looks young Sue kept sending toward the dapper Italian wheelwright as she set their dishes on the table. She had no doubt Violet noticed as well, though for once she held her tongue.
In addition, Mr. DiMartino told them, there had been a hard freeze in the night, which should make the roads easier to travel.
"We should start directly, then," said Mr. Turpin, picking up another of the excellent muffins and spreading it with thick country butter. "We'll want to get as far as we can before a thaw can set in and soften the roads to mud again."
To this they all agreed, and in half an hour they were again on their way. Violet still had a tendency to smirk, so to prevent her asking any more awkward questions, Dina said, "How far behind schedule do you suppose this has put us?"
Mr. Turpin shrugged. "We are making far better time now, with the roads frozen. If we can continue so, we may be able to make up for what we lost yesterday and still reach Ashcombe by late tonight. I'm sure you'd prefer that to spending another night on the road."
Dina glanced at him, then
away, having caught the rueful look in his eyes. Clearly, he would prefer that as well —for the very reason he attributed to her. Ignoring the pinprick of hurt that thought caused her, Dina turned her thoughts to the coming confrontation with her brother instead.
Chapter Six
Silas Moore rode up the drive to Ashcombe Hall feeling as though a great weight were being lifted from his shoulders. Today, finally, all of his problems would be solved. The past ten days spent hiding from his creditors in a friend's old shooting cottage had been hellish. The fireplace had smoked and the furniture was threadbare. Why Deever had thought he'd appreciate such a ramshackle place was beyond him.
Still, it had served his purpose, and once he settled things with the trustees today, he would never again be driven to such exigencies.
Halting before the front steps, he dismounted and handed his reins to the waiting groom, then hurried into the house. He needed to freshen up and have a bite to eat before heading out to Litchfield to sign whatever was needed to secure the remainder of Ashcombe's assets in his name. It would probably be prudent to bring Dina along, just in case her signature was required on anything —not that it was likely.
"Ah, Mrs. Macready," he greeted the housekeeper as she emerged from the back of the house. "Where is my sister? Upstairs? Send someone to tell her to be ready to leave within the hour."
Instead of the quick, quiet answer and instant obedience he expected, the plump, iron-haired woman twisted her apron between her hands, her lips pressed together.
"Did you not hear me?" Silas prompted testily. "Fetch Miss Moore at once. I am in a hurry."
Mrs. Macready took a step backward before speaking. "I'm afraid I can't, sir, begging your pardon."
Silas scowled, but then remembered what would have transpired earlier in the week. No doubt Dina had been upset when Diggory Tallow backed out of their supposed elopement. She'd had enough time to get over it by now, though.
"Been refusing to come out of her room, has she? Well, I've no time for her sulks. Tell her I'm home and that I need to speak with her. Immediately."
But still the housekeeper did not move. He began to wonder if perhaps she did not have the wits for such a responsible post, for all she'd held it six years.
"Are you gone deaf?" he demanded. "I told you I was in a hurry. Oh, bloody hell. I'll tell her myself." He started toward the stairs, then glanced back to see Mrs. Macready still frozen in place, her eyes wide with fear.
The first prickle of foreboding crept up Silas's spine. "What? Is there some sort of problem? What has happened?"
"It's . . . it's Miss Moore, sir. She's . . . she's . . ."
"Out with it!" he fairly shouted, restraining himself with difficulty from shaking the halting words from her mouth. If Dina had gone into a real decline, she might not be able to accompany him—not that it should make any real difference.
"She's not been seen since Sunday night." The words came in such a breathless rush that at first Silas did not understand them —but then their import sank in.
"Sunday night, say you?"
The housekeeper gave a quick, frightened nod. She took another step backward, but in one long stride, Silas closed the distance between them and seized her by the shoulders.
"Are you certain?" Could Tallow have betrayed him and eloped with her after all? He'd thought the fellow thoroughly cowed, but the lure of Dina's fortune might have—
"Yes, sir," Mrs. Macready gasped, bringing him back to the moment at hand. "Her maid said that she took a small valise with her, but nothing else. We didn't know how to contact you, or—"
Silas released her so suddenly that she stumbled slightly. "No. No, you didn't." Tallow did, however. There was no point taking out his anger on a servant instead of the proper target. He turned toward a shrinking footman, hovering near the front door.
"Have my horse brought back 'round. And I want a meal prepared," he added to the housekeeper. "Have it ready when I return."
A few minutes later, he was galloping his tired horse in the direction of Diggory Tallow's manor house, though he scarcely expected to find his old school chum at home. By the time he arrived, he had devised all manner of fitting punishments for his supposed ally's perfidy, but the exercise did little to assuage the knot of dread in his stomach.
Surely, even if Diggory had married Dina and now had control of her fortune, Silas held enough influence over the man to regain enough of it to pay of his debts. He hoped.
"Is Mr. Tallow in?" he demanded of the butler who answered his pounding on the door.
To his surprise and vast relief, the servant nodded. "If you'll follow me, Mr. Moore."
Silas found Diggory at table, finishing what appeared to have been a sumptuous luncheon. At Silas's entrance, however, his fork clattered onto his plate and he jumped to his feet. "Silas! What . . . what a surprise," he stammered.
A glance proved that no one else had been dining with him, but still Silas had to ask. "Is my sister here?"
"Dina?" Diggory seemed honestly surprised. "Of course not. Is . . . is she not at home?"
For a moment Silas regarded his erstwhile friend through narrowed eyes, then pulled out a chair and seated himself across the table from him. "No. She's not been home since Sunday night. You can imagine what I thought when I discovered that."
Diggory paled visibly. "You thought I had— But I promised you I wouldn't go through with it. Nor did I, as you can see. Would . . . would you like something to eat? To drink?"
Silas nodded, the knot in his stomach unclenching as his friend rang for a servant. No matter where Dina was, she hadn't married Diggory, so Silas's fortune should be secure.
"So what did happen Sunday night?" he asked, once the servant had gone again.
His friend still looked uncomfortable. "I, ah, hired a post chaise and met your sister on the road, as planned. It was raining," he added irrelevantly. "Once . . . once she arrived, I told her I wanted to wait. Until we had your blessing."
Again, Silas nodded. That was just how he and Diggory had planned it, not wanting to wound Dina's feelings or make her suspicious of their true motives. Silas saw no point in adding insult to injury, given that he planned to use much of her dowry to pay his gaming debts— though of course he would repay her once his luck changed.
"And then?"
Diggory swallowed visibly. "She . . . she was quite insistent on going ahead with the elopement. Tried to tempt me with her fortune, though of course I was not to be shaken in my resolve." He sent Silas a shaky smile, seeking approval.
Silas did not give it to him. "So . . . what? You came back here?"
"Ah . . . yes." Clearly, there was more to the story.
"What aren't you telling me?"
At his tone, Diggory blanched again. "If you must know, she . . . she hit me. Hard. She really was quite upset."
"Yes, Dina can throw an impressive punch for her size," Silas said with a degree of pride. "Our uncle taught her a bit of boxing when we were young. But that does not tell me where she is now."
"I . . . I don't know," Diggory confessed. "While I was, er, incapacitated, she spoke with the postboy and drove off. I assumed she had him take her home. It was raining, as I said."
"Incapacitated? Do you mean she actually knocked you down?"
Diggory nodded shamefacedly. "I, er, wasn't expecting—"
"Never mind. She didn't go home, so we must figure out where she did go." Not that it mattered for purposes of Silas securing the money he needed, but she was his sister. He supposed he had an obligation to discover what had happened to her.
"You don't suppose the driver kidnapped her? For ransom?"
"I shouldn't think so," Diggory said. "How would he have known she had any sort of fortune?"
"Still, it's a possibility." The servant returned with a plate of sandwiches and Silas grabbed a couple of them. "I'll go home and see if any message has arrived." His idiot housekeeper might have forgotten to mention it. "If you remember anything else, let
me know."
"Of . . . of course."
He still had a niggling suspicion that Diggory was hiding something, but as long as it wasn't Dina herself, it didn't much signify. Snatching up one more sandwich, he headed for the door, munching as he went.
No matter what ransom was demanded, Silas himself would still come out ahead —even presuming he agreed to pay it. He was only mildly worried about Dina, for if she'd been kidnapped, her captors would not harm her as long as they hoped for money. And if she had not, then no doubt she was hiding somewhere, pouting over Diggory's inconstancy, and would come home when she felt better.
Now that he thought on it, her absence might prove to be a blessing in disguise, affording him the opportunity to search her rooms for their mother's jewel chest.
A month or two ago, she'd moved the chest out of the library safe, no doubt upon discovering certain items missing —items Silas had sold to satisfy one particularly insistent creditor. He hadn't commented on it at the time, secure in the knowledge that he would soon have her entire inheritance at his disposal. Now, however, it seemed prudent to hedge his bets. Besides, he reasoned, it wasn't as though Dina was likely ever to have need of those baubles.
"Have there been any letters for me?" he asked Purseglove, the butler, the moment he returned to Ashcombe Hall. Mrs. Macready was nowhere to be seen.
"Why, yes, sir. A messenger arrived only half an hour ago," the butler replied, plucking an envelope from the tray on the hall table.
Though surprised that it had not come days before, Silas opened the message with more relief than dread. At least it meant that Dina was safe, along with her— soon to be his— fortune.
He received a second surprise when he saw that the message was written in Dina's hand —and then he felt the color leaving his face as he read it through. "It's not possible!" he exploded.