by Liz Carlyle
Then the stubbornness, too, fell into grief. Why was he forcing these poor, ill-prepared servants to bear the brunt of his self-loathing?
“I beg your pardon, Cutler,” he said, pinching hard at the bridge of his nose. “This won’t do, will it? Send to the White Lion and bespeak me a bed and some dinner, please.”
The old man bobbed his head like an eager bird. “Aye, I can do it vor ’ee,” he said more agreeably. “Will ’ee bide here?”
“Yes, for a time,” said Edward, raking a hand through his now-sooty hair. “I’m going to begin hauling out some of this furniture so we can chop it into kindling.”
The old man bobbed again, so amiable he likely would have nodded just the same if Edward had said he meant to set the house afire, strip naked, and dance in circles while it burnt. Which was, now he thought on it, a tempting notion.
Stooping beneath the low lintel, the old man hobbled out through the door that gave on to a series of weedy kitchen gardens that must once have been quite splendid. Edward watched him go, then dragged out the filthy kitchen table, its legs shuddering and scraping over the flagstone. After it went a battered churn and an ancient meat safe, its tin front rusting away, followed by a dozen rickety chairs, the bottoms all split out.
But when he reached the last chair, his rage half burnt away by his exertions, he instead fell into it, and considered his situation.
He should have told Kate about Annie, he realized, his heart sinking deeper still.
As soon as he’d remembered her existence, he should have told Kate. And told her everything, too. It wasn’t as if he didn’t trust her. But the story was so vile and his own guilt so heavy, he kept it inside. A part of him had also feared ruining the beauty of their burgeoning friendship, though it shocked him he might have—much less so deeply value—a friendship with a lady of such decency and character.
But it was not just a friendship, was it? It had become far more the moment he’d kissed her that afternoon by her parlor window. He hadn’t even known who the hell he was, but the moment Kate had opened beneath him, sighing so sweetly into his mouth, he had known that he was lost.
He had claimed her in that moment—in his heart if not his head—and she had been his ever after. Except that he had never told her so. He had never told her that he loved her. Never confessed to her that something inside him had altered; had torn from its moorings and flown to her, and that she now held his heart, bitter and scarred as it was, in her slender but capable hands.
And now Kate was convinced that he was hiding something from her—which he was. He was hiding Annie as he had always hidden her; behind a curtain of anger and hurt and, yes, guilt. Guilt that he had not flown fast enough to her mother’s side. Guilt that, truth be told, a part of him had rued his promise to Maria.
But he would have kept it, of that he had no doubt, had fate given him the chance. He would have married her, claimed the child as his own, and made up whatever vile pack of lies was required to ensure the story was believable.
Anything to save her suffering. Anything to save Annie from a fate that might have crushed her.
He propped his elbows on his knees and let his head fall into his hands, the scent of ash thick in his nostrils, his eyes stinging. He told himself it was the soot that made them burn, and even then he halfway believed it.
But he believed, too, that his life was in ruins, and there was nothing to be done.
Nothing but go back to Kate and beg her pardon and declare himself a changed man. Which he was, indeed.
Profiting upon the frailty of human nature held no satisfaction, but gave only a disgust. In small, destructive increments, Edward had allowed himself to become no better than that foul piece of humanity Alfred Hedge, and he knew it. He was merely better bred—by some small measure—and, if anything, far more ruthless.
How was he to impose that on Kate?
He could not. Not even if Peters turned up on his doorstep this instant with a portmanteau stuffed with cash in hand.
But what would Kate say of that? She was neither young nor foolish. She was an intelligent woman who managed a complicated life with skill and grace. Was he so caught up in regret and despair, he was unilaterally choosing a path without so much as considering her wishes? Should he tell her how he felt?
Perhaps she was so disgusted with him now it didn’t matter. But for a man who had lived his entire life utterly confident in his ability to bludgeon his way through life’s every challenge, Edward suddenly could not think straight.
But he could go to Kate and apologize for being a prideful ass.
And he would, by God, stop sitting here on the verge of tears. He would quit this pathetic mewling and remember what he did have, could he but set things right with Kate: a bond of quiet friendship that only a fool would fail to salvage.
It was a good thing he’d chosen that moment in which to decide this course of action, too, for he’d just got up from the wobbling chair and sent it flying toward the door with a swift, hard kick when a large shadow fell over the threshold.
“Quartermaine!” barked a harsh, familiar voice. “That you?”
“Come in, man!” Edward ordered, but Anstruther was already edging his way inside. “The place isn’t trip-wired, for God’s sake.”
Anstruther’s hard gaze swept the kitchen, his face falling. “Afternoon to ye,” said the Scotsman, handing him a letter. “I was hoping to find Miss Kate aboot.”
“To find Kate?” Incredulous, Edward flicked a glance at the letter, then shoved it away. “Here?”
“No’ here, then?” Anstruther frowned. “And you’d be sure?”
“What?” Edward strode across the room. “Why should you think to find her here? Where the devil is she?”
Hesitance turned to something darker, and Anstruther shook his head. “No’ at the castle,” he said uneasily. “I’ve just come from there. This morning she bade me bring you that letter, then I was to head over to the new rectory to meet her. But she didna turn up.”
Edward shook his head. “That isn’t like Kate,” he said quietly. “She’s not with Nancy?”
“She was niver seen at the rectory, though it was there she was last going.” Anstruther was twisting anxiously at the strap of his crop. “Something’s amiss, Quartermaine. I feel it keenly.”
“God damn it!” Edward kicked the chair back across the room. “It’s Hoke, the scurvy bastard!”
“Aye, he was none too pleased to be thwarted last night, I hear,” said the big Scot, narrowing one eye.
“Oh, he blustered a few vague threats.” Edward dropped his tone, an ugly chill settling over him. “Or perhaps not so vague, after all?”
“I’ve sent Burnham all through the village, and Jasper across the home farm. Tom Shearn’s calling on all the tenants—but quiet-like—and Upshaw’s gone back to tear the house apart. But naught’s been seen of her.”
Edward was already shrugging into his coat. “That man is a rabid dog,” he said, snatching his crop, “and needs to be put down. Where can he have taken her?”
“He had nae carriage,” said Anstruther as they strode out of the house, both bending low beneath the door. “He would not dare take her by train. There’s no inn or such place hereabouts as he might hide her; she’s too well-known. No, I think she’s here. On Heatherfields. It’s what Reggie knows best.”
“Good God, would he harm her?” Having already untied Aragon, Edward flung himself into the saddle and forced his temper down. If ever there had been a time for his cold, emotionless logic, the time was now.
Anstruther, however, didn’t mount up. “I’ve been puzzling it out,” he said scratching at one of his massive muttonchops. “I think he’d no’ harm her. But Upshaw’s dinner party is tonight.”
“Dear God,” said Edward. “Does he think to embarrass her before the whole village?”
“Aye, at the very least,” said Anstruther, “for he’s desperate—and desperate men, e’en the fickle and stupid ones, are dange
rous.”
“Yes, and what he’s desperate for is to marry her,” said Edward. “His debts are crushing him.”
Anstruther gave a bark of sarcastic laughter. “Aye, weel, Kate canna help him there, even should she wish,” he said. “Bellecombe’s valuable but cash poor, and she’s not such a fool as to risk borrowing money over him. Reggie just came back thinking she’d be easily charmed.”
“Then he seriously underestimated Kate.”
“Aye, he did. But you”—here Anstruther paused and gave his familiar, assessing squint—“now, you, I think, would not be such a fool, would ye? I think perhaps you grasp the lady’s good sense, and her worth?”
Edward wasn’t sure what Anstruther was asking, but he was sure of his answer. “I never met a woman more sensible or more worthy,” he replied. “And she damned sure won’t be wasted on the likes of Lord Reginald Hoke.”
Anstruther gave a tight nod, as if granting Edward some sort of permission. “Gude, then how well d’ye remember the lay of the land?” he asked. “The empty cottages, the barns, the byres?”
Edward considered it but a moment. “I’ve pretty well memorized it,” he said. “I’ll search the northeasterly half, along Bellecombe’s border.”
“I’ll go round the far side o’ the village, then, to the old tithe barn,” said Anstruther, “and work toward you. If we find naught, we’ll meet up along the stream by the lower pasture.”
Anstruther shoved a foot in his stirrup and hefted himself onto the great, gray beast. Then, as if it were an afterthought, he reached behind him for a worn saddlebag, and extracted a pistol.
“I shouldn’t need that,” said Edward, “to deal with the likes of Reggie.”
“Expediency,” said Anstruther. “I’ve got the mate. Should ye find that conniving fiend, fire it. I’ll find you. Then we’ll take the devil doon a hack.”
KATE CAME AWAKE on a lurch of nausea. The air was damp, thick with earthy scents. Above her face, vaulting rafters swam, faded away, then straightened themselves entirely. They were black with age and rough-hewn.
A shed, she thought dimly. Or a cottage?
She lay upon something hard and cold. Gingerly rolling onto her right elbow, she clasped her hand to her mouth and tried not to retch. But the frightful, dank smell of the place struck full force then, and she staggered up.
Reeling across what had once been a flagstone floor, she made her way to the planked door. It wouldn’t budge. Kate pounded on it with both hands, and there came a scraping, metallic sound. Flinging the door wide, she ran into the bracken beyond and heaved up her breakfast in the blinding light.
Behind her, someone cleared his throat. “Frightfully sorry, old thing. A wicked side effect, nausea.”
Kate rose an inch, trying to think whose voice it was. Why it made her skin crawl.
Reggie.
Damn and blast, it was Reggie. What had he done? Poisoned her? Hands braced on her thighs, Kate tried to think. She had been on her way to the village. Someone had clapped something vile and sickening-sweet over her face.
Kate straightened and fumbled for her handkerchief to wipe her mouth. Drawing a deep breath, she felt the world coming back into focus. She stood in a landscape of bracken and heather. Far beyond it, the Exmoor rose up to meet the sky, the afternoon sun sending cloud-shaped shadows scuttling over it.
It was a familiar view. She had been drugged, she thought, and carted off somewhere—somewhere not far from home. Shoving the handkerchief away, she turned and marched back down the muddy, overgrown path, righteous indignation swelling in her breast.
Reggie stood propped against the door frame, a smug look of satisfaction upon his face.
Something about that satisfaction was her undoing. Kate hauled back and swung fast, backhanding him with all her might. Reggie’s head snapped, cracking on the stonework. He staggered but a moment, then grabbed her and dragged her, clawing and biting, back into the cottage.
“You little—bitch!” He grunted out the words, wrestling her back onto what passed for a pallet. “Always—were—a hellcat.”
Kate was fast, or would have been, but the drug had slowed her in both body and brain, and Reggie outweighed her considerably. She fought him hard, but to no avail, thrashing back with her elbows, scrabbling for a handful of shirt or hair or anything she could seize.
Eventually, however, Reggie got her facedown and threw all his weight atop her. Then the sickening smell pressed in upon Kate, and the darkness came again.
A SHORT BUT storied career in the British army, paired with nearly two decades spent raking out the pockets of some of the most duplicitous that humanity could offer, had honed Edward’s instincts to a slicing edge. By the time he’d reached the edge of the moor, having moved relentlessly over hill and dale, through hedge, ditch, and every cowshed he beheld, three hours had passed and his blood was still like ice water in his veins.
He had learnt to smell deception before he saw it and to believe, like Machiavelli, that overcoming an enemy by fraud was as good as by force. Thus, when he saw the abandoned cottage with its attached shed half caved in, an uneasy certainty settled over him.
Returning to a copse on the far side of the hill, he secured Aragon and walked back to the cottage. Carefully selecting his angle of approach, he crept up to the windowless rear, a long wall spanning both house and shed. Within, nothing stirred—at least nothing that could be heard through the thick stone.
Nonetheless, he sensed a presence. Soundlessly he moved across the back in the direction of the shed. Halfway along he was rewarded by a faint snuffle, and the sound of shifting hooves. A quick glimpse around the corner, and he caught sight of a long, black tail swishing across a pair of red and black legs.
Kate’s bay mare. Suddenly, he caught the rumble of a low voice from within the cottage.
Settling himself against the wall, he weighed what to do. He supposed Reggie to be armed; cowards usually were. He was not afraid of rushing the door, and expected he could tackle Reggie long before he got off a shot.
But that was a big gamble when Kate could get hurt. Spitfire that she was, Reggie had likely been compelled to bind her, rendering her incapable of movement or defense. No, better to flush Reggie out first.
Swiftly, he crept around to the side and stuck his head around front to examine the access points. One door with a low stoop and two windows, both shuttered. Glazing, if there had ever been any, had long ago been pried out. Damn it. There was no way to see what was happening inside.
Mentally calculating how far away Anstruther might be, Edward went around to the shed and released Kate’s mare, along with a second horse, just as the voices took on an angry pitch. With the argument as cover, he led the horses away.
Upon his return to the shed, Edward began to quietly pile up straw and dry manure against the connecting wall, then topped it with dead bracken. Once the pile looked high enough, he double-checked the weapon Anstruther had given him. Then Edward pulled out his matches and sent up a prayer to Vesta.
WHEN NEXT KATE came awake, it was to find herself slumped in the corner, her hands bound before her by a length of filthy rope, and the handkerchief gagging her mouth. The rope went around her waist, painfully tight, hitching her from behind to something she couldn’t see. An iron ring set in the wall, as best her numb fingers could make out.
Reggie sat on an old milking stool beneath a shuttered window. A blade of light leached in through the crack, casting an eerie, sharply angled luminance over his eyes.
“Hullo, Kate,” he said softly. “Back amongst the living, are we?”
She lashed out with one leg, attempting to kick the stool from under him as she cursed him through the gag.
“What’s that, my love?” Reggie leered. “Why, I would not dare take advantage of an insensate female! Besides, I had your virtue long ago, Kate, for what that was worth.”
Stomping one boot heel impotently, Kate threatened to cut off his bollocks with a dull knife. The gag, unfortun
ately, spoiled the effect.
“Oh, just hush, Kate.” Churlishly, he threw his arms across his chest. “You’re still too drugged to run, and if you don’t sit still, I mean to gas you again.”
Snarling, Kate threw herself back against the stonework and considered her options. Her head was not clear, it was true, but she was beginning to make out where she was. Her eyes must have lit with recognition.
“Yes, the old cowman’s cottage,” said Reggie, showing his large, white teeth as he grinned. “We used to play here, Stephen and I. I thought you might recognize it.”
When Kate said nothing, Reggie’s smile actually warmed. “There’s a good girl,” he murmured, stretching out his legs. “Now, just sit quietly, my dear, and in the morning this will all be over.”
In the morning?
What was the devil up to? Kate let her gaze dart about the one-room structure, considering her options—which were few, so far as her befuddled brain could make out. But what she could make out was the glint of a small pistol on the rickety gateleg table beside Reggie; not a proper sidearm, but something smaller, stubbier, and infinitely more lethal-looking.
“Oh, that’s not for you, my love,” said Reggie, seeing her eyes widen. “How could you think it? That’s just for our protection today, in case someone manages to find you before you’re thoroughly compromised.”
“Compromised—?” Kate growled, though the gag absorbed the sound. “Are you mad?”
But of course he was mad; it went without saying. There was a feverish gleam in his eyes, and the strained, harsh look etched around his mouth had deepened.
“Kate,” he said soothingly, “you really shan’t have much choice. Half the village will be at Bellecombe tonight for the great celebration. I’m afraid our night-long absence will be much remarked.”
On a groan, Kate shut her eyes. Uncle Upshaw’s dinner party! And Reggie was right—everyone would be there.
And everyone would notice her absence.