Of course, the freedom of such independence was delicious to a boy that age, and true, these field exercises had their moments of high adventure, especially when you ran into another group and had to defend your territory. But on the whole, these field exercises involved being lost, hungry, tired, on edge from the obstacle course of dangers and “surprises” the military teachers had planned, all while your body ached from sleeping on the cold, damp ground. The boys had to make their own weapons, catch and cook their own food, and build their own shelters.
Obviously, the ordeal was hardly meant to be a holiday. These excursions were meant to toughen the boys up and unify them as a team.
If they didn’t kill each other once the food supply ran low, they might just end up as the sort of cohesive unit the Order wanted, able to think and move as one.
Like Beau and Trevor and Nick . . . though he seemed to be the only one who remembered that these days.
He rode on, stopping at the ancient cemetery for the Order’s fallen knights. There he paid his respects at Virgil’s grave. This done, he finally arrived at the bustling center square, where various venerable school buildings were arranged across from the great stone Abbey.
Here the life of the Order of Saint Michael the Archangel carried on as it had since the time of the Crusades. He went straight to the administrator’s office, and, after a bit of stilted but polite conversation, he received permission to visit Baron Forrester in his cell.
He bowed to his superiors, then took leave of them and headed there at once.
Soon, a heavily armed guard was leading him down into the dank, dim, stone undercroft beneath the Abbey. The man took a torch off the wall.
From there, they went down endless cobwebbed stairs hewn into the stone, then marched through the ancient catacombs.
As the guard showed him into a dark tunnel that stretched even deeper into the mountain, Trevor paused uneasily. This was a place he had certainly never visited before; indeed, he had not known it existed.
“He’s down here?” he murmured to the guard a few strides ahead of him.
The man merely gave him a wry glance over his shoulder.
Trevor scowled to find he was starting to feel a bit sorry for Nick. It was not a sentiment he desired to indulge. The bastard deserved it. Nick had done this to himself. It should have given Trevor satisfaction to see that at least this dungeon was worse than the cellar in which Nick had locked him when he had served his time as his “life insurance policy.”
At any rate, it surely took this severe a punishment to make even a small dent in Nick’s impervious bravado.
They passed a few empty cells, then the guard stopped and banged his truncheon on the rusty bars. “Visitor!”
When Trevor stepped into view, Nick and he stared at each other in shock—Trevor, to see his proud, fearless friend in such a place, Nick, to see him there at all.
“Thirty minutes,” said the guard.
“Leave us,” Trevor ordered.
When the guard had marched off, Trevor and Nick looked at each other warily through the bars.
“Damn,” Trevor breathed, taking it all in.
Nick’s dungeon cell was only the size of a horse’s box stall, maybe ten by ten, one wall sealed with iron bars, the other three of stone.
There was a stool and a small, battered table opposite a sturdy cot. There Trevor spotted the extra blanket and pillow Carissa had been thoughtful enough to send. He saw that the Beauchamps had also sent Nick a supply of extra candles, books, and writing paper to occupy his devious mind, and a tin of candy.
Scanning Nick’s dismal accommodations in awkward silence, Trevor felt unexpectedly depressed.
It was a shock to see his brother warrior in prison though maybe it shouldn’t have been. The Order was careful about the mix of boys it built into a team. They always wanted a useful blend of skills and personalities. Thus, some fifteen years ago, they had teamed the smooth-talking charmer, Beau, with the steady, logical Trevor.
And then there was Nick.
The bankrupt Baron Forrester’s son and heir had wound up with them because nobody else could stand him. Nick was moody and proud, stormy and relentless, prone to sarcasm, difficult and hard. A loner by nature, he was quick to fight and good enough at it that even back then, the older boys had feared him.
He had become fiercely protective of Beau and Trevor once they had befriended him, yet there had always remained an untamed part of Nick that neither of them could reach.
He was a law unto himself, and that was the main reason that Nick could be a pain in the arse to work with. He saw the world differently than everybody else did. His unpredictability was an advantage in their line of work, but it meant his personal life was usually a mess. He had never met a dare he wouldn’t take or, as the rebel of the Order, a rule he wouldn’t bend.
On second thought, maybe it wasn’t surprising at all that he should end up here, Trevor mused as he leaned against the bars. Still, seeing the reality of his fierce, wild friend in a cage, he shook his head, his anger draining away to something sadder. “It might’ve been me who suffered for your madness, but I never wanted this for you.”
“Eh, it’s not so bad,” he drawled. “They let me out for an hour a day. Two hours next month if I’m a good boy.” He shrugged and glanced around his cell. “They’ve given me some codes to work on for them. Keep me out of trouble.”
Trevor did his best to smile.
“Ah, come on, don’t look like that,” Nick chided. “It would’ve been the gallows for me if I hadn’t had the good fortune to take that bullet for the Regent. In the grand scheme of things, I consider myself lucky.”
Trevor finally managed to conceal his dismay. “How is that bullet wound, anyway?”
“Fine, all healed up. Yours?”
Trevor shrugged. Two spies exchanging pleasantries. “Fine. Had good care quick after it happened,” he conceded, for when he had got shot in the back in Spain, it was Nick who had pulled him to safety and saved his life.
That was what had started all the trouble. Seeing Trevor shot, very nearly killed, was what had made Nick snap after all his years of service.
No one was allowed to quit the Order.
Nick had known that as well as anyone, but he had tried.
“And the knee?” the caged agent inquired rather more gingerly.
Trevor arched a brow at him, considering it was Nick who had kicked it out on him in one of their many brawls when he had tried to escape the cellar where the blackguard had made a prisoner of him.
Nick had known that the only way he’d be allowed to leave the Order was if he had leverage in the form of a hostage, namely Trevor, still convalescing from the bullet in the back.
“Well, I’m no longer limping,” he replied politely.
“There, you see? I could’ve kicked it sideways, and you’d have limped for life. I came in straight on purpose, I’ll have you know.”
“You’re practically a saint,” Trevor drawled.
Nick let out a low, devilish laugh. “I got your note in the package from Carissa, by the by. As you can see, I decided to take your advice to rot in hell. Cozy, isn’t it?” He glanced around at his cell.
“Hmm.” Trevor nodded. “Not as hot as I’d imagined.”
Nick shook his head. “I definitely did not expect to see you here.”
Trevor shrugged and looked away. “Believe me, I’m as surprised as you.”
Nick fell silent, looking around anywhere but at him. He folded his arms across his chest and studied the flagstone at his feet. “I heard about Laura. Trevor, that was never supposed to happen. I really am sorry. You know I never liked her, but for you to end up jilted. Hell, man. If there’s anything I can do to help you make it right, I could explain to her that it was my fault you disappeared. I’ll write her a letter, apologize—”
Nick raised his eyebrows.
“But fair warning, if you say, ‘I told you so,’ I’ll throttle you—”
“Wouldn’t dare,” he said ruefully.
“Still.” Trevor gave him a hard look. “If we didn’t go back so far, I’d want your blood. But . . . I suppose it’s water under the bridge by now. We’re both alive, and that is something, after all we’ve been through. And so I accept your apology,” he said.
Nick reached through the bars and offered his hand.
Trevor shook his firmly.
“Thank you,” Nick forced out.
Somewhat abashed, Trevor glanced past his friend self-consciously as their handshake ended. “What’s that on the wall?” He nodded at the charts and unfurled parchments that Nick had hung up on the stone wall of his cell. Trevor squinted in the torchlight, trying to make it out. “Maps? Of where?”
Nick looked at them, then cast him a roguish smile. “America.”
“What? Are you planning a trip to the Colonies when you get out?”
“Not a trip,” he murmured in a confidential tone. “I’m thinking of staking a claim there, west of the Alleghenies.”
Trevor looked at him in shock. “Leave England? For the frontier? Nick, the bloody wilderness?”
“Why not. I figure the only company I’m fit for anymore is that of wild beasts and savages. I’ll fit right in,” he said with an easy, hell-raiser’s smile.
“And your title?” Trevor asked in astonishment.
“Who gives a damn? The Crown can take it back for all I care. My father left me bankrupt. The old manor house is falling down, and God knows after this”—he glanced around at his cell—“the name of Forrester is permanently blighted.”
“That’s not true! The rest of the world has no idea where you are. You know the Order always keeps its business private.”
“But I know, don’t I?” he replied.
Trevor did not know what to say. He did not doubt that behind his stubborn pride, Nick was deeply ashamed of his momentary loss of faith in the cause. “Prison terms, aristocratic titles. The Iroquois and the Cherokee aren’t going to care about such things. Mayhap I shall become an Indian trader. Make a mountain of gold off beaver pelts and timber.”
“You’ve completely lost your mind.”
“Long ago, my friend. Long ago,” Nick answered with a low laugh.
Trevor shook his head, unsure if Nick was serious about his plan or if fantasies of ultimate freedom in the wilderness were just his means of coping with his current incarceration. “You honestly mean to become an American?” He kept his voice down so the guard wouldn’t hear. “Never mind they’ll lynch you when they hear your accent? You do realize Englishmen are not exactly popular right now on the streets of Boston and Philadelphia? We did burn down their capital.”
“So I’ll speak French. The Yanks won’t bother me. I think I’m beginning to understand those people. Liberty and all that. One gains a keener understanding of the notion when one’s locked up in a cage.”
“Or a cellar,” Trevor agreed in a crisp tone, but they looked at each other, and both began to laugh.
“Nick, Nick, Nicholas,” Trevor chided with a sigh, much as their old handler, Virgil, used to say to his problem agent.
Nick shrugged. “I’ve had enough of the world’s corruption. I just want to be left alone, and the frontier beyond those mountains seems the right place to do it.”
“The right place to get eaten by a bear,” he corrected him, but Nick merely grinned.
“You don’t have to come and visit me in my log cabin if you’re afraid of the bears, dear lad. But never mind all that. Tell me of the world outside these walls. What’s been going on with you?”
Trevor leaned against the bars. “Well, you may be interested to learn that I’ve bought a farm . . .”
Nick listened intently as Trevor told him all about the Grange. When he saw how hungry his friend was for any news of the outside world, he took pity on him and soon proceeded to regale him with the tale of how he had first encountered Grace Kenwood, kissing the wrong woman in a dark room at the Lievedon Ball.
“She’s going to drive me madder than Drake.”
“No one could ever be madder than Drake,” Nick replied. “A pastor’s daughter. She sounds perfect for you.”
“That’s what Beau said, too. I don’t know . . .” He frowned. “We quarreled before I left. I’m fairly sure she hates me at the moment.”
“You’d better not muck this up for yourself. Go back to Thimbleton and charm her. Don’t end up alone like me.”
At that moment, they heard the guard returning to fetch him. It seemed their time was up. Both friends glanced toward the stony tunnel. The guard had not yet appeared, but they could hear his heavy footfalls approaching.
Nick glanced at him through the bars a trifle worriedly. “So are we all right, then?”
“Of course, brother,” Trevor murmured, and offered his hand again. “Of course we are.”
Nick shook his hand firm with soulful gratitude in his dark eyes. “Thank you for coming all this way.”
“I hate seeing you in here, for what it’s worth.” Trevor took a slip of paper out of his pocket and jotted down his new address. “Beau’s out of the country with Carissa, so if you need anything at all, write to me here. Don’t hesitate. This is no time for your stubborn pride. Whatever happens, Nick, you’ve still got friends.”
He dropped his gaze and nodded, taking the piece of paper through the bars with more emotion in his eyes when he glanced up again than his words could have conveyed. “Thanks again.”
Trevor gave him a resolute nod as the guard joined them. “It was good to see you. Stay strong,” he murmured.
With a farewell nod, Trevor marched out, though leaving his mate in a hellhole like this was one of the hardest things he’d ever had to do.
Satisfied that at least they had resolved their differences, he stalked back outside and soon swung up onto his horse. It was time to head back to Thimbleton.
Thistleton, he corrected himself.
If he was going back to put down roots there, then he’d bloody well better learn the name.
Grace watched and waited, but until the would-be guest of honor returned, plans for the Windleshams’ elegant dinner party remained on hold.
Lord Trevor Montgomery had been missing for a week now, an “emergency” over which Lady Windlesham in particular was entirely out of sorts, having already claimed him for her future son-in-law.
Her darling Callie could obviously do better, after all, than a feckless gambling rakehell like George, Lord Brentford. True, Lord Trevor was only a younger son, but his fame as a hero of the Realm made up for the lack of a title in his own right, Her Ladyship declared, and Callie had cheerfully reported back to Grace.
For her part, she was beginning to despair that she had so deeply offended him with her too-frank, self-righteous words that he wasn’t coming back.
If she had been wrong enough to earn a rare rebuke from Papa, then indeed, she must have been too hard on him.
She had thought at the time she was right, but maybe she had spoken out of pride or jealousy . . .
Oh, how vexing it was to doubt herself!
So she fretted and frittered away her days, waiting for him to return and trying to convince herself all the while that she was doing nothing of the kind.
With him gone, all she could think about was how very dull it was around here. She didn’t want to admit it, but Callie was right.
The great excitement of the week while he was gone was when Farmer Curtis’s brindle cow and her calf had escaped their pasture and wandered through the churchyard.
Tru
ly, nothing ever happened around here unless George the Brat came home, got reeling drunk at the Gaggle Goose, sang at the top of his lungs, and fell into the canal.
Grace read a book a day and could not remember what any of the stories were about. She sat by her garden, waiting for weeds to grow so she could yank them out.
Dull, dull, dull.
What had that man done to her life, which heretofore had been so full of country charm, serenity, contentment?
She wanted him to come back so she could strangle him for doing this to her, changing everything. The whole atmosphere of Thistleton had changed—at least for her. And it made her angry at him all over again that he had this much power over her.
Who was this man to come crashing into her life, disturbing her tranquility, making her question all her assumptions and her own correctness?
Her primary assumption, especially, had been that she could never interest a man so handsome, so worldly-wise and accomplished, so firm of will and strong in character.
She had always thought she would end up either alone or with some milquetoast preacher (to be perfectly blunt). Or perhaps, if there was a third possibility, that God might match her up with some wounded bird of a man, some battered soul who needed loving, nurselike care.
None of these possibilities were much inducement to marriage.
But now . . . Lord Trevor Montgomery had been asking Marianne about her.
Her.
Plain, boring, steady, sensible Grace Kenwood.
She squeezed her eyes shut with the most delicious, disbelieving wonder, incredulity, and joy.
No. She dared not hope.
There had to be some misunderstanding. She was too tall and not highborn enough.
A man like that—beautiful, dashing, dangerous, thoroughly capable—always ended up with a Calpurnia in the end.
She looked out the window for the twentieth time that day, and suddenly let out a small shriek.
Gaelen Foley - [Inferno Club 06] Page 15