The duke leaned back in his chair, staring deep into the flickering flames of the fire. “He has gotten bitter and angry, it seems. He refuses to tell me what is bothering him. It is as if I no longer know him.”
Guessing the water hot enough, she retrieved the kettle, filled the cups, and then dropped each cheesecloth wrapped bundle of herbs in. “Is he like your father then?”
“Why would you say that?”
Shrugging she dunked the tea bags. “Well, your father was not a very nice man.”
He sighed. “My father was not the tyrant you think him to be, Felicity.”
“Save your breath, for you will never convince me of that.” She removed the tea bags, added a spoonful of honey to both cups and then took the plain chamomile to him. After retrieving her own cup she settled into the other wing backed chair next to the fire. The orange cat came, hopped onto her lap and curled up purring. She stroked its head. “Are you and your brother close?”
“It is sad, but I cannot say as we ever were, no. How about you? Have you any siblings?”
“My little brother drowned when he was two. My mother died shortly after that. My father never had any interest in anyone until he met your mother. I was eight when your father hung mine from a branch of the old elderberry tree in our south pasture. I witnessed the whole thing. Your father left me there in the dirt beneath his corpse. The groom found me eventually and I was sent to live with my aunt in London. She dumped me into a boarding school when my uncle passed away a few months later and never looked back. Two weeks ago I was informed she died abroad and that there was nothing left to pay my graduation fee, or a dowry left to attract a marriage prospect.”
“I am sorry to hear that. So you hatched a plan to kidnap my brother Christian in order to seduce him, or to gain money for a dowry?”
“Neither.” Blowing on her tea she pondered the flames a moment and then took a sip.
“Then what, pray tell, did you hope to accomplish with the charade?”
Setting the cup back on her saucer she sighed. “I thought money could replace all I lost, and my years of suffering at the hands of that awful Rebecca Carivale.”
“Lord Winston Carivale’s daughter?”
She nodded. “She made it her life’s mission to see each and every day at that horrid finishing school was a nightmare.”
“Huh. I never imagined a finishing school could be so brutal.”
Felicity steeled herself for his mocking; yet his expression was not one of sarcasm, but one of thoughtfulness she didn’t expect. “To this day I have no idea what I ever did to earn her scorn.”
“I had no idea ladies could be bullies. I suppose your finishing school experience was much like many a young man’s school woes.”
“Really?” It surprised her that boys could be as catty as Rebecca.
“Oh yes. Why, Marcus Trenton was my nemesis throughout my school years. He and Rutledge Wilson took immense delight in causing me grief.”
“How so?” She leaned forward, her tea forgotten to hear his tale.
“From day one, that Marcus had it in for me. I had better grades than he, you see, and he was sore because I made him look a fool after he taunted Christian.”
She shifted into a more comfortable position as the cat jumped down. “Tell me more.”
By the time William was done his tale, Felicity’s sides we hurting from laughing so hard, her hand was numb from the willow bark, and her lids heavy from the chamomile. The cat had long since wandered off, and the clock on the mantle chimed ten. “That was a sad and amusing tale, William. Thank you for sharing. It was an entertaining way to spend a stormy eve. The tea has worked its magic, and I fear if I do not retire now I shall fall sleep right where I sit.” Setting her cup and saucer aside she stood.
William stood as well. “Goodnight then, Felicity, have a pleasant sleep.”
“As to you,” she murmured and headed off to bed.
Felicity readied for bed and then climbed beneath the covers. The cat was already there curled up by her feet. She stroked its head and pondered the duke in her sleepy state. He was indeed a kind man, too kind. She was beginning to feel guilty about knocking him on the head and taking him hostage. It wasn’t fair. Why couldn’t he be a tyrant like his sire? Lying back, she stared up at the oak beams crisscrossing the ceiling. Perhaps he was only on his best behavior trying to make her feel guilty? That was entirely possible, she decided as she rolled over and snuggled deeper into the quilt. Nobody she knew could be that nice under these circumstances, especially not the son of the Black Duke.
* * *
William dragged the feather-filled ticking closer to the fire and settled down with a light wool blanket. The woman was a complete chucklehead—no doubt about it—and stubborn, willful, noddy and…quite pretty. He started at the latter thought. Good Lord, was he falling for his captor? She must have knocked his noggin harder than he figured. He touched the tender lump on the back of his head. When would she give up her ridiculous idea of ransoming him? By the time she was able to make it to the nearest village to send her note someone would come looking for him. Perhaps he should just give her a letter granting her a sum from his own accounts. She could take it to his solicitor and end this silly game of hers. Would she accept such a bargain? No, most likely not; she was clumsy, not daft. No doubt she would know he could have her arrested upon presenting such a document. It seemed he had little choice but remain her prisoner until help arrived. He tugged at the shackles. There was no way to free himself unless he either managed to get the key…or sawed his way through the post to which he was affixed. The only saw would be at the woodpile outside.
Rolling onto his side he stared into the flickering fire. He couldn’t help feeling sorry for her, no matter how hard he tried. A debutante’s life was focused solely around finding a suitable husband, and being the daughter of a murderer would make that mission impossible. Forced out onto the harsh streets of London, he couldn’t say he wouldn’t entertain the same idea as she to seek revenge…though he doubted he would actually act on that thought. He supposed that was the difference between a man of the ton and a helpless woman. Men had options, ways to survive, and a young woman had little other than menial labor, or prostitution. Still, it didn’t make it right for her to attempt such a heinous and, if he had to admit it, amusing crime.
As the wind buffeted the little lodge, he pondered what to do with the woman upon his rescue. He certainly could see her ensconced in Newgate Prison for the rest of her life…or commit her to Templeton Sanatorium. On the other hand, what would be served by making her life more miserable? He supposed he could try to find her some kind of employment to earn her keep, either in a servant position or…. He shifted as his loins awakened…in his bed. His snicker of amusement bounced off the lodge walls. Why was he suddenly like an untried boy, thinking with the wrong head? It wasn’t as if he hadn’t had his share of encounters over the years, some satisfying and some less than that. Why, he had even come close to offering for Miss Francesca Deval. He grimaced at the thought. Yes he had dodged a bullet there for sure when a young viscount offered first. Of course, he would have to marry at some point, if only to beget an heir to continue his long line of aristocracy. Still, he had many years to enjoy life before being shackled to some demanding woman and enduring endless little whelps climbing all over his domain. Rolling his eyes, he shifted away from the growing heat of the fire. To be fair, he might enjoy children. He didn’t enjoy other people’s snot-nosed brats, but he supposed his own would be different, less noise, smell, and rambunctiousness; after all it was only a matter of training, he supposed. If he could train his horses to be utterly obedient, surely a child couldn’t be that difficult to tame.
With thoughts of impressively behaved young boys filling his head, he drifted off to sleep.
Chapter Eight
The next morning, outside the window looked worse than the day before, a fact which Felicity could neither believe, nor find amusement in. Co
uld things get any grimmer? She couldn’t fight the sense of melancholy engulfing her as she dressed. She had to come up with a plan, or she was sure to find herself in Newgate Prison. The problem was: how did one make a new plan in a snowstorm?
After dressing she exited the bedchamber and found the duke as the day before, lounging in a chair by the hearth, fire blazing and bedding neatly stowed. “Are you always such an early riser?”
A small smile played about his lips as he regarded her sleepy eyed gaze. “Are you always such a late one?”
“A lady never rises before ten and besides, I like to read late into the night.”
“The kettle is hot for tea.”
His bright eyed gaze followed her as she crossed to take the kettle from its hook, careful to use the edge of her velvet skirt to keep from burning her uninjured hand. His attention unnerved her, though she had no real idea why. Perhaps it was simply because she was unused to any man paying attention to her. Or maybe it was only the fear of her clumsiness. Taking the kettle to the kitchen she set to work brewing a pot of strong tea.
“So…what is it you like to read?”
She glanced at him. “Pretty much anything, I suppose, from poetry to gothics.”
“Ah.” He smirked. “Poems of love and tales of knights in shining armor, how droll.”
“To each his own.” Miffed, she scooped the tea leaves from the pot of water. “I suppose you only read the political section of the newspaper.”
“Actually I am a great fan of Byron’s musings.”
Surprised she set down the spoon and pondered him. “Really? I would think such flowery prose would be more Christian’s style.”
The duke frowned. “I doubt Christian reads anything beyond the next party invite.”
After pouring and sweetening the tea she carried the cups to the old scarred table. The duke joined her and they sipped in silence for a few minutes.
“So…what will you do now?”
Her gaze met his steady one over the rim of her cup. “Well, it appears my only choice is to wait out the storm and then move you to another location and send my ransom letter.”
He snorted. “Move me? Good luck with that.”
She smirked at his challenge. “As I see it, my lord, you are the one chained to the wall.” With that she rose, put on her cape and headed out to get wood.
The bite of the wind cut through her wool cape and she pulled it tighter around her. The grey day combined with the swirling snow left visibility to a mere couple feet. It was difficult to locate the woodpile under the snow, but she managed and then groped her way back to the door. Once the wood was in she headed back out to see to the horses. She set out in a straight line from the back door knowing the barn would be directly in her path. The deep snow drifts were difficult to maneuver through. Her breath was coming in gasps when her shoulder connected with something solid. With a yelp she held out her hand and discerned the corner of the barn. Somehow she had drifted from her course but luckily she hadn’t missed the stable entirely. Inching her way to the right, she followed the wall until she found the door. Once inside she shook the snow from her cloak and set to work feeding and watering the horses.
The horse called Spartan was testy and restless. He pinned his ears, pawing the floor and tugging his lead, when she approached with his scoop of oats. “Easy, boy.” With the utmost caution she reached out, dumped the oats in his feeder and stepped back. Though the animal lipped at the feed, he seemed anxious still.
The horse called Joe was much more content and stood quietly as she fed him, and ate with lazy acceptance. Growing bold she stroked his soft neck. “You are a nice boy, eh, Joe?” He snuffled her hair and then went back to eating.
It would be easy to stay in the barn to avoid verbally sparing with the duke but sooner or later, hunger and the chill would force her back inside the lodge. With a sigh she finished caring for the horses, this time leaving them as much feed in their mangers as possible, and went back out into the storm.
The wind slammed her full force, pelting her face with icy snow crystals. It took all her strength to secure the stable doors. Once they were shut tight, she gathered her bearings and struck out for the lodge obscured by snow. Her tracks had already been obliterated by the wind and she struggled to wade through the shifting footing. Head bowed against the wind and cloak wrapped tight around her, she plodded on and on. Before long a sense of panic over took her. Should I not have reached the lodge by now? Have I strayed from a straight line? Perhaps the snow is slowing my progress?
Her panic turned into full blown terror when, without a doubt, she realized she was lost. Trembling with fear, cold, and near exhaustion, she came to a halt and tried to get her bearings. The feat was impossible, for all she could see was a wall of white. Her chest tightened. I am going to freeze to death out here. I have no idea which way to go. In despair she crouched down and huddled in the snow. Tucking her head to her chest, she tried to shield her face to protect it from the storm’s icy claws. Teeth chattering and weary, she closed her eyes. This is it. This is how I am going to die…
A strange noise began to rise over the wind. Clang…clang…clang…clang…. She puzzled the sound a moment. Had the barn door come open and was now banging? No, the sound was too metallic to be the wooden doors. Lifting her head she, squinted through the snow. Clang…clang…clang…. Was it her imagination? The sound paused and then started up again. She turned her head in the direction it was coming from. It seemed to her she had three choices; she could sit there and freeze, try to find her way back to the shelter of the barn, or follow the mysterious sound to possible safety.
Summoning her courage , she pushed on in the direction the clanging was coming from. By this time her feet were frozen, packed with snow which had worked its way into her short boots. She stumbled, landing on her hands and knees, hissing when her bandaged hand became soggy. All around her, the world was silent, and for a moment she feared the clanging had stopped. When it started up again, it was louder. Struggling on frozen limbs, she got to her feet and kept going.
Before long her knees collided with something hard, which shifted beneath her outstretched hand. The long lumpy shape before her she recognized was the woodpile. Her relief to have found the lodge was so profound a few tears slipped down her cheeks mixing with the flakes of snow. The clanging was coming from inside the lodge, she realized, as she made her way to the door. Twisting the knob she wondered what the duke was up too, most likely trying to free himself from his shackles. Shoving the door open she tumbled inside the warmth of the lodge.
The duke was sitting at the table with two pots in his hand when she spied him. His face was lined with worry. It dawned on her, as she shut the door, he had been making the clanging noises deliberately.
“I was beginning to worry about you.” He set the pots down. “There is plenty of hot water in the kettle for tea. Take your cloak off and come warm up by the fire.”
Numb with cold, she nodded with chattering teeth and shed her cloak. Removing her shoes was another story. Biting her lip she eased her stiff snow filled boots off each frozen foot. Limping she carried them to the hearth to dry and settled into one of the chairs there.
The duke snatched up one of the wool blankets folded neatly on his tick and wrapped it around her. “You look near frozen to death.”
“Th—thanks. I—I a—am.” She held her hands out to the welcome warmth of the crackling fire. “How did you know I was lost?”
He shrugged. “It seemed to be taking an extraordinarily long time to feed and water two animals. I should have had you tie a rope around your waist so you could find your way back easier. I am sorry, I did not realize the storm had gotten so bad.”
She forced a smile to her stiff lips. “So you played a pot?”
His chuckle warmed her as much as the fire. “The pots were the only things I could reach, so I pounded them together hoping you would hear.”
“Luckily I did hear. I had given up, knowing I wa
s lost and had no idea which way to go until I heard them clanging.”
“You should bring the tea materials to the hearth and stay bundled up by the fire for the rest of the day.” He settled into the chair beside her.
“Good idea.” She rose wincing on pins and needle feet. “Thank you…William, for thinking of the pots, I mean.”
He grinned. “Well, if something happens to you, I am in a real pickle barrel you know.”
Rolling her eyes, she shuffled off to gather the tea supplies onto a tray and bring them back to the fire.
Chapter Nine
They passed the afternoon quietly reading. William looked often to Felicity, worried as her cheeks flushed and a delicate cough developed in his captor. It bothered him he might be the cause of her falling ill, indirectly. After all they were his animals she risked her life to care for. That guilt made him want to kick himself, for at the root of it all, it was her own fault for kidnapping him in the first place.
By evening her cough worsened, her face was flushed and her eyes carried that telltale glassy look of a raging fever. He didn’t press her to make an evening meal, but rather had her bring cheese and bread to nibble on, of which she ate little.
“You have caught a chill. You should eat something.”
Felicity sniffled. “My throat is too sore.”
“I will brew you some willow bark, lemon and honey tea.” For lack of anything else to do he set about brewing a pot that would soothe her throat and ease her fever. “Perhaps you should sleep on the straw tick before the fire where it is warmer tonight.”
She shot him a dirty look. “So you can accost and have your way with me?”
When she blew her nose in a very unladylike way into her silk handkerchief, he snickered. “You are not exactly the most beguiling creature right now.”
“Why not? Am I too far below your station, my lord?” Scowling at him she sniffled again.
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