by Heather Snow
The voices around her stilled abruptly, and Emma could have sworn she felt Derick’s gaze boring into her more surely than Archimedes’ famed screw. Which was impossible, of course, as a mere gaze had no actual physical properties.
She didn’t look up from her task as she said, “I’m certain Lord Scarsdale will agree that explanations can wait until after we find his missing upstairs maid.”
Crack!
The sharp, sizzling pop of lightning served as harsh punctuation to her pronouncement. A low rumble of thunder followed quickly behind. Emma glanced over her shoulder at the window in time to see the first fat drops of a summer storm splash against the panes. Fig! If Molly were outside and injured…Emma mentally kicked herself for the bit of time she’d squandered mooning like a schoolgirl over a man who obviously didn’t even remember her. She returned her eyes to the table and scanned the map again.
“My missing upstairs maid?” Derick repeated, sounding dubious.
“Yes.” Without raising her gaze to him, Emma held up a hand to forestall any more questions. She ran her finger over the map. If her calculations were correct, the only feasible place Molly could be that they hadn’t already searched was this area to the east of—
“Miss Wallingford,” Derick growled, in a voice that demanded her attention.
So he did remember her.
“As these are my resources you seem to be marshaling,” he said, “I expect an explanation.”
She looked up at him then, annoyed. Had he just referred to his staff, and some of hers for that matter, as his resources? Emma narrowed her eyes, considering the possible ramifications of ignoring him completely. She had more important things to do than appease his “lord of the manor” sensibilities, particularly when this lord hadn’t bothered to grace this manor with his presence in more than a dozen years.
But Derick had risen to his full formidable height, taller even than she remembered. His glittering eyes had taken on a look of arrogant command. Emma gritted her teeth.
“Molly Simms,” she explained. “The gardener’s daughter. No one has seen her since she retired last evening.”
His shoulder rose in a half shrug. “That’s not even twenty-four hours,” he said. “I would hardly consider that ‘missing.’”
Emma pursed her lips. What did he know of anything? “Well, the rest of us disagree,” she said. “We feel Molly did not leave of her own volition and fear her situation may be dire.”
She’d given him as much of an explanation as he was going to get. Emma dismissed him and returned her gaze to the map.
“Yes, but why do you disagree?” he asked, plopping his hand down in the center of the map to block her view. “Do people in this village routinely find themselves in dire circumstances? Have you had a rash of dastardly events?”
Emma pinched the bridge of her nose. The Derick she remembered hadn’t been so tiresome. But then, she’d known only the boy. He had been seventeen when she’d seen him last, a whole lifetime of changes ago.
“Of course not,” she said. Being situated at the south end of the Peak District, they’d had a bit more crime than perhaps was normal due to the number of strangers that passed through. Even a few suspicious deaths, but nothing like that for at least two years.
“Were there signs of a struggle?” he persisted.
“No,” Emma admitted.
“And yet you suspect foul play…” Derick lifted his hand and crossed his arms with a slow negligence that set her teeth on edge. “The girl is young. She’s probably visiting with a…friend, and lost track of the time.”
The tips of Emma’s ears burned with indignation. She glanced around, grateful that neither of Molly’s parents was in the room.
“Or perhaps she eloped with the lucky chap,” he offered.
Emma nearly gasped at his cheek. Could Derick truly have become such an insensitive boor? A lifetime of changes or not, people didn’t usually transform into someone completely unrecognizable.
Regardless, she’d heard enough. She raised herself to her full height, which unfortunately barely put her at his chest level. Her cheeks warmed as she remembered that horrid nickname he used to call her as a child. Still, she gave him her fiercest glare. He was going to take her seriously and get out of her way, so help her.
“I suppose that in the realm of possibilities, these are all reasonable questions. However, if I may point out”—she emphasized the point with a poke of her finger right to his breastbone—“that you don’t know Molly from Eve. You can credit those of us who do that we have considered all other likely scenarios and have exhausted them.”
Another rolling boom of thunder sounded, ever closer. A quick glance confirmed that the sunlight was fading fast.
She turned her gaze back to Derick and narrowed it on him. “Molly is out there, somewhere, and the more time we waste chatting about it, the less chance we have of finding her before dark.”
Derick regarded her. He still looked as though he doubted her conclusions, but gone were the arrogant tilt to his nose, the pinched lines around his mouth, the bored ease of his stance. “I su—”
“She tweren’t anywhere, Miss Emma.” Two footmen came through the door then, cutting off whatever Derick had been about to say. The taller one spoke for them. “We searched the whole spot ye told us.”
Emma grimaced. The men stood in the doorway, taking great gulps of air and wiping moisture from their faces. Her frown deepened at their rain-sodden coats. She waved them toward the kitchen, not caring if Derick took issue with her directing his resources. “Thank you. Go on and get a hot drink, then hurry right back. We’ll need you both as soon as you’re able.”
She turned back to the map, bracing herself on the table with her left hand and using her right to draw lines through the section the men had been assigned—another search area combed through without success. Emma scanned the darkening sky through the window, mentally calculating how much daylight remained. She’d always been able to tabulate numbers in her head faster than even her father, an esteemed mathematician, had been able to do on paper. She factored in how much area a man could cover on foot in that time, and divided the result by the number of servants available.
Rain pelted the glass in an ever-increasing tattoo.
She’d better account for that variable in her time estimations. She was doing just that when a large bronzed hand planted itself to the outside of her smaller pale one. Emma sucked in a breath, startled by the long, blunt-tipped fingers, the knuckles and skin dusted with a hint of black hair. Her entire body warmed curiously as Derick leaned over her back to see what she was doing.
“You’re mapping search areas,” he murmured, his voice sliding past her right ear in a hot breath.
“Y-yes,” Emma answered, damning herself for the catch in her throat. What in the heavens was wrong with h—
She jerked as the inside of his jacketed arm brushed the outside of her pelissed one. His right hand reached out to run a finger down the eastern border she’d recently traced herself. Emma shivered, as if it were she he stroked rather than the vellum.
“And this unshaded portion is what you have left to search?”
Emma gave a jerky nod. “Those two footmen just finished searching here.” She pointed to a marked area to the northeast, abashed to see her finger tremble just a bit. “Since their greatcoats were soaked, I can only assume it’s been pouring east of here for some time, which you may remember—”
“Is prone to sudden flooding,” Derick said. He straightened, pulling away from her so quickly that gooseflesh prickled her skin at the sudden absence of his heat. “Don’t let me interrupt further, then.”
She nodded, relieved, but whether more from the fact that he’d capitulated than that he’d moved away from her, she wasn’t certain. It didn’t signify—at least he would no longer interfere. Emma quickly divvied up the eastern boundary into manageable sections.
“Right.” She addressed the tired servants, her middle tightening w
ith unease. “We haven’t daylight left to search the remaining area in pairs,” she said, suppressing her discomfort the best way she knew how—with action. “We’ll all have to take our own section.”
As each man or woman came forward, Emma assigned them a small, defined boundary until only she, Billingsly, and Derick remained in the room.
“Billingsly.” Emma motioned the butler to follow as she exited the dining hall and made her way toward the front entrance. The old servant was too frail to be out searching in the rain, but she knew he’d want to be useful. “As the searchers return, you and Cook do what you can to get them warmed, dry and fed. God forbid we need to continue the search tomorrow,” she muttered, shoving her arms into a coat and struggling to pull it on.
The coat lifted from her shoulders, as if by unseen hands, before the heavy wool settled around her. She whirled in surprise, her elbow coming into solid contact with a hard wall—
“Ooof,” Derick grunted, his black brows dipping as he winced.
—of abdomen, as it were.
“Oh! Oh pardon me…” Emma mumbled, though truthfully she didn’t regret the accidental jab. But how had he appeared behind her? She looked down at his sturdy black boots. Certainly she should have heard a man of his size clomping down the hall after her.
Derick rubbed at the spot where Emma’s elbow had speared him. The place she’d poked on his chest still smarted, too. She was quite strong for such a compact little thing. Bright, too, given what little he’d seen of her tactical mind at work, even if she was overreacting. If he remembered correctly, Emma always had been one to take things too seriously, and to infect those around her with her imaginings. He’d guess she was making a mountain out of the proverbial molehill.
She was also adept at giving orders, and accustomed to being obeyed. Oh yes, little Pygmy had grown into just the kind of woman he’d thought she would.
Emma turned her back on him—again. Derick shook his head as he watched her struggle with the heavy oak door.
She still had more intelligence than common sense, however, since she was apparently planning to run out into a dangerous storm alone.
He reached around her and grasped the handle, stopping the door from opening. “You neglected to give me an assignment.”
Emma turned, effectively caged by his arm and the door at her back. Those large amber eyes widened as he loomed over her. Which heightened his own awareness of how close his body was to hers, nearly touching. How fragile she seemed…how diminutive, and yet so uncommonly tough. He’d already been the recipient of her tart tongue and sharp appendages. Now, thinking back, he remembered that when they were children, Emma had always kept up with him, no matter how he’d tried to lose her.
As if to demonstrate that her stubbornness still remained, Emma lifted her chin in challenge. “I hadn’t thought you would—”
“Wish to help?” Derick returned her challenge, raising a brow. Damn. Her assumption irked. And the fact that he’d been stung by it irked more. He’d long ago grown accustomed to not caring what anyone thought. “Feel responsible for a member of my household?”
Emma blinked. “Your household?” She sputtered. “You haven’t been to Derbyshire in fourteen—”
“No, but I am human, Miss Wallingford.” Derick stepped closer, bringing his other arm around and planting it on the door behind her, trapping her. Only so that she would listen to him, of course. Not at all because of her tantalizing scent, a heady mix of lavender and…something he couldn’t quite place. “I may not agree with your assumptions, but it is clear you strongly believe the maid is in danger. If there is a chance you are correct, I would like to do what I can.”
A huff of exasperation escaped her lips, a gesture Derick took to mean she didn’t think too highly of him or his offer. He allowed a half-cynical smile to curve his lips. What did he care if Miss Emma Wallingford disapproved of one of his many alter egos? It wasn’t him, after all.
Besides, he doubted she’d like him any better if she knew his true purpose in Derbyshire.
To investigate her brother for treason.
Chapter Two
Emma blinked up at him, her eyes widening like twin full moons at harvest. Her chest rose and fell in shallow pants. Derick’s blood thickened. She was as affected by their nearness as he. Her rapid pulse beat in the hollow of her throat, nearly in time with his.
Why did he react so to her? Certainly he’d been in tighter proximity to many a woman, in and out of the course of duty. But rarely did he allow himself so…close to one.
So why now? Why her?
For reasons beyond him, he permitted her perusal—held so still, in fact, that his arms ached from remaining locked on either side of her. Emma’s amber gaze traveled over his forehead, swept his cheeks, settled on his mouth for a long moment, then flew to his eyes. She stared, her chestnut brows dipping in concentration. What did she think she saw?
A part of Derick’s brain registered the danger of letting her see too much. Yet he still didn’t pull away.
Then her full lips flattened, and before he sensed what she was about, Emma ducked beneath his left arm and darted away.
Little minx. She hadn’t been caught up in him. She had been calculating how best to get back to her search. Tenacious nature, indeed. She’d barely had to dip her head to escape him, given their difference in height. He must remember to place his arms lower next time.
Next time? He had no intention of staying in Derbyshire long enough for there to be a next time. He planned only to settle his estate and discover whether Emma’s brother was the last of the traitors he was hunting, and then his responsibilities to home and country would be finished. And he could finally look forward—to an uncertain future, but at least one on his own terms.
Right now, however, he’d better look behind him if he wanted to keep Emma in his sights, as her footfalls indicated a hasty retreat. Since she would be the most expedient avenue through which to investigate her brother, he intended to stick by her side. Derick pushed away from the door and turned to follow her.
Emma was more than halfway down the hallway already, her oversized coat dragging the ground behind her like the train of a gown being worn by a child playing dress-up. Did they not have decent tailors in upper Derbyshire? That coat was designed for someone much taller than she.
“Emma,” he called out, his longer strides eating the ground between them. The shuffle of Billingsly’s footsteps fell away. No telling what the old butler thought of his and Emma’s unorthodox behavior.
“If you would like to help”—Emma’s voice floated back to him—“then stay here and mark off the map when the searchers return.”
“That would be no help at all,” he countered, almost offended that she thought him thick enough to be pawned off by such a useless task. He shouldn’t be, however. Didn’t he want her and everyone else to view him as feckless?
She stopped abruptly then, without even acknowledging him, and placed her hands on a panel of wood wainscoting beneath the grand staircase.
The passageway. It had been used as an escape when the castle functioned as such in medieval times—and when he’d wanted to avoid his mother. It was a service passage now.
The panel slid away, creating an opening in the wall that Emma stepped through. The wood slid closed behind her with a snick.
That was rich. Not only was she barely attempting to placate him, she was trying to lose him. Well, he’d be damned before he would allow Emma to get away so easily. His intent to shadow her aside, what kind of man would he be to let her traipse through the countryside alone during a storm, no matter how imperative she thought the reason? She’d pointed out herself how dangerous that could be. The question struck him again about why he cared so much. What was it about this chit of a girl?
When he reached the panel, Derick pressed it as he’d seen Emma do. Nothing happened. The damned wainscoting bore an intricate checkered pattern and he couldn’t remember exactly which squares tripped the lev
er. He’d been too far away to see which ones Emma had pushed.
He tried them all in turn, stewing with frustration. When he reached the last, he slammed his palm against it with an annoyed growl—which earned him nothing more than a smarting palm. He fisted his hand to soothe the sting.
Which was, of course, when Billingsly finally caught up to him. “Press these two together, milord,” Billingsly suggested, not by expression or tone acknowledging that he’d just witnessed his employer acting like a petulant child. The butler’s gnarled hands trembled slightly as he reached out and touched offset squares. The panel slid open, revealing a narrow but well-tended hallway. The man nodded his head to the left. “Miss Emma’s likely gone that way, to the servants’ entrance at the back of the house.”
“Thank you, Billingsly,” Derick said. He ducked to clear the tapered beam and stepped into the passage, looking in the direction the butler had indicated. Emma must have already turned the corner.
Derick shot down the hallway, not exactly at a run, but not far from it. The irony wasn’t lost on him. After ten summers trying to ditch little Pygmy, here he was chasing after her—and through his own house, no less.
Natural light greeted him at the next turn, fading as a closing door shut it out. Derick sped up, pushing through the exit. Cold rain met his face as he burst outside. Damnation.
The sky held a pinkish gray cast—pink to the west where the sun had begun its gentle descent into the horizon, gray to the east where dark, swollen clouds forced the light away. It was to the east that Derick spotted Emma, her determined steps carrying her through the stable yard and toward the forest.
He did run then, cursing as his foot slipped in the mud. He frowned, dismayed at how dangerously slick it had grown in such a short time. The spongy consistency spoke of oversaturated ground, not simply rain from this storm. It must have poured here for several days prior.