by Gaelen Foley
“Here.” She turned to him with a reassuring smile. “Let’s feed them together like we used to. Give me your hand.”
When he slowly put out his hand, she spilled a fistful of oats into his palm. “Go on,” she coaxed him in the same soothing tone with which she had spoken to the horses.
Drake did not remember hand-feeding the horses with her, but that dulcet voice, as soft as breezes, could have given him any order, and he’d have obeyed.
Standing beside her, he reached over the fence and let an old bay gelding lip the grain from his hand.
Meanwhile, Sergeant Parker stood a few yards off, keeping a wary eye on him, his rifle hanging across his back. As the horse’s velvety muzzle tickled his hand, Drake knew that his captors’ suspicion of him was not unwarranted.
Even now, he was well aware of how easy it would be to vault over the fence onto one of the horses’ backs and gallop out of their reach.
He mightn’t get far without tack, but at least he would get a running start on the Order. He could escape, hide, survive—and make his way to London, back to James.
Dread for the old man’s safety still moved like ominous storm clouds over the landscape of his mind—only now, a light had broken. And Drake found he could not tear himself away from her.
Emily.
He watched the gamekeeper’s beautiful daughter in endless fascination.
Finding her, knowing that sweet, freckled face at once had suddenly arrested the fear and rage that had been ruling him for an age. Near her, he felt at peace, his battered soul like a ship’s crew resting in the clear eye of a tempest.
But somehow he knew this was only a brief calm, this country idyll. Despite all he had been through so far, the other end of the storm was bound to be worse.
For now, his fascination with Emily kept him here. Hang him if she wasn’t as odd and wild as he was, in her way. Perhaps he sensed that if anyone could help him, she could. Perhaps he knew deep down in his marrow that if he could trust anyone, it was her.
Only her.
Acutely aware of the mysterious beauty beside him, close enough to touch—though he did not dare—he obediently stroked the broad, flat cheek of one of the horses, scratching away a little patch of dried mud.
Emily jumped down off the fence and turned to him. “Let’s take a walk in the woods. Perhaps you’ll remember the path—but don’t worry if you can’t. I know the way. I’d never let you get lost, Drake. Come.”
He stared into her eyes, those eyes that had haunted his dreams for so long. Deep violet-blue with bright gold flecks, they entranced him even now. He nodded, abandoning his visions of escaping on a horse to follow her across the spongy emerald lawn into the wooded park surrounding Westwood Manor.
Sergeant Parker followed at a respectful distance.
Drake ignored him, contemplating Emily as she walked ahead of him. The slim, fey beauty did not appear to belong entirely to this world. With her freckled, sun-kissed complexion, her long, flowing hair, and her strange clothes, she made no bones about respectability. She was dressed more like a maiden of some Anglo-Saxon warrior tribe in worn leather boots, shin-length skirts of a dark, drab color, a leather belt around her hips slung with an odd assortment of the tools of her trade, attending plants and animals.
Her knife sheath, however, was empty.
Max had made her hand over her blade for fear that Drake might steal it from her to hurt himself and others.
Clever one, that Rotherstone.
Drake brushed off his annoyance and contented himself with watching the swing of Emily’s skirts as she stalked over the ground ahead of him. Her long, golden brown tresses billowed on the breeze, slightly tangled, curling at the ends.
A woman of few words, she strode ahead of him in silent confidence, her very walk proclaiming her a free spirit who answered to no man.
Into the woods they went, the path opening before them. At once, Drake was struck by the familiar smell of earth flooding his nostrils, the smell of turf and soil and dormant things coming back to life.
A thick carpet of decaying wet leaves from the previous autumn cushioned their strides. Emily’s footfalls made not a sound as she led the way, as much a woodland creature as any graceful doe. Even her clothes blended into the earthy scenery.
Sensing him falling behind, she turned and gave him a softly commanding look that brought him back into motion. Those deep, mysterious eyes could have summoned him from the other side of the world.
They matched the color of the bluebells on display at the feet of the barren trees and amid the still-leafless thorny brush. He followed her. Delicate sunlight filtered through the branches overhead and dappled the path before them while the bright springtime chirps and lilting warbles of flitting birds filled the woods.
Drake stared at the decaying beauty of a mossy old log that looked like it had lain there for a hundred years.
They wandered on, and vague traces of memory began to flash across his mind, chasing her in some childhood game, echoes of laughter.
He could feel the pent-up weight of memory building like pregnant clouds before a rain.
When they came to a brook, she crouched down at the banks and trailed her hand in the water. She nodded in encouragement to him to follow suit.
Drake splashed his face. The bracing cold water helped to clear his head.
I’m not sure I really want to remember. Doing so would make it all the harder to leave her again, and yet, he knew he would. He had no choice. All he lacked was opportunity.
It probably would not come today. He’d have to bide his time. He lowered his lashes, aware of Sergeant Parker several yards behind them. He did not doubt the trusty sergeant would blow a hole in him before he’d let him get away. Max might not do it on account of their boyhood friendship, but no such sentimental attachment would stop Parker from pulling the trigger.
“Come.” Emily rose gracefully again and stole deeper into the woods.
Drake followed, his sense of familiarity sharpening with every second. She stopped a short distance down the path before a great, craggy oak tree whose gnarled ancient trunk rose from the forest floor like a ruined tower.
Her sideward glance beguiled him. “Race you!” To his surprise, she began climbing the tree. “Aren’t you coming?” she called in a saucy tone over her shoulder.
“I don’t think that’s a—”
“Don’t think, Drake. Just move,” she instructed. “Your body will know what to do.”
He frowned, but she was already well ahead of him, apparently unconcerned that he could see the stockings that disappeared into her boots. As her ivory petticoat swished, he even caught a glimpse of her unbleached cotton long drawers.
A remembered sentiment echoed to him from his boyhood. I’m not about to be outdone by a girl! At once he began climbing after her, chasing the past as much as following her. She was right—somehow, haltingly, his hands knew exactly where to reach to find the old woody knots in the trunk to grab onto, where to put his feet to ascend the massive oak, as if he’d done it countless times before.
In the next moment, Emily was settling herself into a cozy crook between two massive boughs some thirty feet above the forest floor. She looked like she belonged there.
Reaching the top of the trunk, Drake hesitated, assessing his situation.
She pointed helpfully to another thick juncture of the boughs across from her. “Your place is there.”
Drake stared at it, ever so faintly remembering. The main trunk tapered upward, but the massive branch she had indicated offered a comfortable spot to lounge back with some security. He took his place across from her.
Ensconced in their tree, feet dangling, Emily smiled at him; but suddenly, Drake noticed the small scar on the back of her hand. “Your hand! I recognize that scar.”
“Do you?” She leaned closer, studying him. “Then how did I get it?” she challenged softly. “Don’t strain,” she soothed when he swallowed hard, faltering. “Just let
it come to you.”
He closed his eyes for a long moment, then suddenly had the answer and smiled as he murmured: “My father’s hunting falcon bit you.”
When he opened his eyes again, she was grinning. “Indeed, he did. Prince Edward.”
“Yes! That was his name. If that was not the haughtiest, most ill-tempered bird…and dangerous.” He shook his head at her in wonder. “You were just a little girl.”
“Eight years old.” She nodded proudly.
“What were you thinking, putting your hand in his cage?”
“I wanted to pet him.”
Drake scoffed, smiling, while Emily laughed.
“He was so beautiful! I didn’t know he’d bite me.”
“You also didn’t know his favorite food was baby rabbits,” he said, as another memory of those days came back to him without warning.
She wrinkled her nose at the reminder. “Do you remember the day we broke into the mews and rescued that clutch of coneys that were to be fed to him?”
Drake narrowed his eyes, amazed at the images of them together as children that begun to bloom across his mind. “Yes…we broke in and set those little rabbits free.”
“You got in so much trouble,” she teased.
“But you never did, did you?” he countered with a half smile. “You were the troublemaker.”
“No, I wasn’t. You were.”
He shook his head. “You must have talked me into it.”
“You just couldn’t stand to see me cry.”
Drake stared at her.
“Those baby rabbits were going to die a horrible death! We had to help them. But you were my hero that day,” she reminded him. “You were the one who picked the lock.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“Well, I do,” she said. “I could never forget how you went against your father for me that night. And for those baby rabbits,” she added.
He smiled at her, mystified. “I can’t believe you still have that scar. But I’ll bet you’ve never stopped trying to gentle wild creatures.”
She smiled at him. Drake searched her face, hugely relieved that these small fragments of his life were starting to come back. It must be due to her. He had not felt so close to anyone in ages, so safe with anyone.
He knew in his heart that he had always trusted her. And that she had always loved him, even though his parents had warned him she was too far beneath his station.
Emily held his gaze for a long moment, her smile softening. “Do you know why I brought you here, Drake?”
He shook his head, mute with emotion.
“This is our Story Tree.” She reached out and laid her scarred hand over his. “It’s time for you to tell me what happened to you out there.”
At once, he pulled his hand away, shaking his head. “I don’t remember.”
“Yes, you do. You’re just afraid. But you’re safe now. You must tell me. I know about the Order, remember?” she whispered, glancing down in the direction of Sergeant Parker. “You told me all about it when we were small. How you were going to go to a secret military school in Scotland, where you’d train to become a great warrior. I’ve never told anyone, just like I promised. But you don’t know how I’ve worried for you. God, I thought you were dead. Finding you alive again, Drake, it’s the best thing that ever happened to me, but this…what they’ve done to you—” She quickly looked away as her eyes filled with tears. She fought them back and turned to him again.
His heart was pounding.
“I want to help you. Please, you still trust me, don’t you? You know I’d never hurt you. You cannot hold this inside. I’m going to take care of you, but I need to know the nature of the wound. Drake, tell me what those people did to you.”
He just stared at her, refusing to talk now just as he had in that German prison, but for vastly different reasons. He did not want to remember. He just wanted to put it behind him. Besides, someone like Emily should never hear words like “torture.”
She waited, then shook her head when he remained silent. “Don’t be afraid. Whatever it is, you don’t have to face it alone. I will make you well again, Drake. Every day I will tend you until you’re strong again—”
“I am not one of your wild animals,” he cut her off, unable to bear anymore. His voice was shaking, his throat tight. “If you love me, Emily, then you must let me go. Help me to escape these men.”
“No. You need to stay here,” she countered fiercely. “With me. Where you’ll be safe. Where you belong. I’m not going to let them hurt you anymore. You can’t ask that of me.”
“You don’t understand. There’s more I have to do.”
“You’re not ready! By God, haven’t they taken enough of you?” she cried. Then she shook her head stubbornly. “No. I will not hear of it. At the very least, you must regain your strength. You’re not going anywhere until you’ve had a chance to heal.”
“What makes you believe that’s even possible, little Emily?” he murmured, eyeing her darkly. “Has it never occurred to you that I’m already beyond your power to save?”
She paled a bit at his answer, then shook her head again. “I don’t believe that,” she replied. “I will never give up on you, Drake, no matter what happens.”
He dropped his gaze, seething. What a fool she was.
Beautiful, innocent fool.
Chapter 10
Making love to Mara had left Jordan with a delirious taste of happiness—and an uneasy conscience.
He was not at all accustomed to either sensation, and both made it difficult to concentrate when he sat down a few nights later to play cards with the Regent’s set at Watier’s. As the dealer flicked the cards to each player seated round the green baize table, Jordan forced himself to ignore his ever-growing concern over all Mara didn’t know and focused instead on what he had come here to do.
His task that night was simple though it would require finesse: establish contact with his target, Albert Carew, the Duke of Holyfield, and begin to cultivate “Alby’s” trust—this was the name by which his fashionable friends still called the duke from his days as Lord Albert Carew, a leading dandy but a mere second son, before he had come into his elder brother’s title.
Once Jordan gained Albert’s confidence, he would soon get to the bottom of his dealings with the Prometheans, who his controller was, and what the enemy wanted the duke to accomplish for them in his post among the Regent’s innermost circle of rowdy male friends.
They were an odd lot, to say the least, Jordan mused, scanning them around the table.
Tonight he would also have to make sure the wild men of the Regent’s set accepted him, so that he would be invited back and could continue observing the suspected Promethean traitor in their midst. That, in turn, meant he’d better play well at the tables—but not too well.
He did not want to outshine them, though he usually excelled at card games that allowed for a measure of mathematical play.
It seemed to be working. But he’d been doing so well all night at whist partnered with Lord Yarmouth that he figured he’d better take care to lose a bit when the gentlemen switched to macao in the wee hours of the morning.
Ah, macao, that infernal game for which Watier’s was infamous. Losing money at the macao table was not difficult to do. Indeed, the youngest member of the Regent’s set, “Golden” Ball-Hughes, barely twenty, had nearly perfected the art.
Having already squandered a greater fortune on the game than most people would ever possess, “the Golden Ball” seemed cheerfully determined to lose the rest of his still-vast inheritance before his thirtieth birthday.
Macao was a form of vingt-et-un where the house dealt each player one card to start instead of two, the aim, to reach the count of nine rather than twenty-one without going bust. Within an hour of play, Jordan had successfully divested the Falconridge fortune of some three thousand pounds. But he gave up the fish-shaped ivory chips representing the large sum with an idle smile.
�
�Well played, Holyfield,” he offered, for Alby had done remarkably well that round.
The preening dandy feasted on the praise, which came at him from several directions as they all congratulated him.
“Born lucky,” he declared, stacking up his ivory chips.
To be sure, Jordan thought, still smiling faintly. No doubt it was Alby’s wonderful luck that had thrown his brother’s dukedom into his lap and opened doors for him until he was dining with a future King of England. The Prometheans could not possibly have had anything to do it.
Of course, the Order knew better than that.
His elder brother’s drowning death along with his newly pregnant wife while the couple had been on holiday in France, so near Malcolm Banks’s territory, had instantly raised their suspicions that it was not the tragic boating accident it appeared.
It was possible that Albert might have paid someone to kill them out of his own dark ambition, but the Order doubted it. The dandy was a smug, scheming piece of arrogance but probably not capable of murder. Someone in his orbit might well be, however, someone who had a use for a man with access to the highest circles in the land. Someone with the ruthlessness to elevate the second-born son deliberately into the dukedom—for a price.
But for what purpose?
It was Jordan’s mission to find out. At any rate, next came the refreshments. Considering it was three in the morning, Jordan had little interest in Chef Labourie’s creations, but the other men’s reactions were amusing to observe.
When the doors to the adjoining eating room were opened, a bevy of waiters welcomed His Royal Highness and his followers with a flourish.
After all, the Regent himself had initiated the founding of Watier’s upon hearing from his companions that the food at the other clubs was intolerably bland and monotonous. He had at once dispatched two of the royal chefs under his former page, named Watier, to create a new club on Piccadilly with an outstanding menu, worthy of London’s gourmands and his own royal stomach.
As Jordan had rather expected, they proceeded to devour everything in sight. He hid his amusement as he took a plate—not to do so would have been rude—but truly, he had never seen a more colorful array of eccentrics, from the debauched to the downright strange.