by Jenn LeBlanc
He collapsed into the spasms, his jaw and fingers flexing as he pulled the towel from beneath him and threw it across his belly.
As he settled before the fire to sup he picked up the note from Dr. Walcott that had been brought with his tray. Roxleigh never liked receiving news that someone in one of the shires was injured, and this one in particular was terrifying. There was no reasonable explanation for the girl’s injuries and no one could account for her whereabouts, leaving them no idea as to what had happened to her. He made a mental note to send a man to Kelso.
Francine’s body was recovering well, even though her voice was not, and she yearned to be active. She couldn’t very well run the halls or staircases as she did at home; she imagined that kind of behavior would be frowned upon. She wanted to explore the beautiful gardens visible from the family’s private parlor, but there was no way she could go outside, either.
She stood in front of the fireplace in her bedchamber. Everything took such a great deal of time here. Sending for the doctor, requesting a dressmaker, visiting a neighbor. She missed e-mail and smart phones.
She started pacing in front of the windows and looked down at the nightdress and robe which were becoming entirely too familiar. It was a beautiful gown, but was so long she had to pull up the skirt in front to keep from tripping on the hem. The matching robe had a full skirt that gathered up to the bodice with a pink ribbon, and it reminded her of something from old Hollywood movies.
Francine paused at one of the windows and looked outside. It was twilight and the western sky was still streaked in yellow and violet. She knew the sky at the back of the house would have most of the remaining light, while the stars above would be glistening brightly like diamonds in velvet. She knew it would be beautiful, and she knew then she had to see it.
Everyone would surely be inside. She took a deep breath and turned, then bolted for the door, not stopping to give her mind a second chance. She ran through the entrance to the private parlor and straight to the wall of French doors that overlooked the balcony and gardens to the west. She stopped in front of one of the doors and held her breath as she reached out to try the latch. It opened easily with a quiet but sturdy click and she smiled. She slipped out, then gathered her skirts up in front of her and ran across the balcony.
Meggie woke suddenly. She thought she heard a door. Sitting up rigidly in the small bed, she placed her hand on the wall that joined the servant’s quarters with the guest bedchamber, then swung her legs out of the bed and went straight in without hesitating to knock; it was empty. She wrung her hands in her skirts. Her eyes stung, her lips started to quiver, and her breath caught in her throat. She had only one job to do: to be there. Wherever Francine was, Meggie was to be there, and now she wasn’t. She had fallen asleep and Francine was gone.
Meggie summoned courage from somewhere deep inside and ran to the bell pull to call for Mrs. Weston.
“She’s gone, ma’am, I’m so sorry! I only just closed my eyes, but she’s gone and I do not know where!” Meggie cried when she came to the bedchamber.
“Oh, Meggie, we must find her before His Grace finds out. Go gather the others, go!”
Meggie stared at her.
“Go!” Mrs. Weston yelled, pushing her toward the door.
Francine was a flurry of white. She’d seen stairs at both ends of the long balcony so she knew it didn’t matter which way she went. She placed one hand on the stone balustrade and followed it to the end and down the sweeping staircase that curved its way out from the house, mirroring the other. The stairs surrounded a large terrace like protective arms and she descended the lower steps from the terrace into the gardens.
She suddenly realized how much her body and mind had been starved of movement. She’d made her escape and she was going to enjoy her moment of solitude in the moonlight, consequences be damned. She ducked behind a hedgerow leading to a tunnel blanketed in vine roses. The moonlight made the pale blossoms glow like lanterns, and the surreal landscape propelled her further down the lane.
Dr. Walcott watched the evening light wane through the western window, then turned back to his patient. He dabbed at Lilly’s wounds with fresh linens, methodically pulling debris from the deeper cuts. Then he flushed the wounds with enough water to remove small fragments before putting salve and fresh linen over each one to protect them and keep them from drying out.
He worked half the night on her face, neck, and shoulders. He decided to simply cut her hair, to save the pain of brushing out the horrible tangles. She must have had clothes on at one point because there were no abrasions around her torso, but once he started cleaning her legs he noted that the gashes on her thighs were a great deal worse. He leaned back in the chair, rubbing his temples with the heels of his hands as he glanced over at her mother. She sat on the opposite side of the bed, her head resting on the pallet next to Lilly, more likely from his laudanum than her exhaustion. He bent back over the girl, picking up right where he left off.
Mrs. Weston watched Roxleigh from a passageway. The others started to move but she held them back with her finger at her mouth. A few minutes later, Roxleigh left the library and ascended the steps going to the door of the private parlor. He opened the door slowly—presumably to make sure his guest was not in there.
She rushed out of the passage as soon as he was safely in the parlor, ushering the other servants with her. “All right then, let’s see to this. Meggie, you go wait in her room and ring if she returns. Davis, you go check the grounds, but don’t go out back because the master will see you if you’re out in the gardens. Ferry, you keep a look out for His Grace. I’m going to the lower north wing. Carole, you take the south.” She paused after hearing a noise in the parlor and then quietly directed the other servants down various hallways, up and below stairs. At last she shooed everyone into action, watching them scatter like mice from the light.
Roxleigh ambled across the parlor to the French doors. The moon was out with the stars, waiting for the sun to take the last streaks of gold below the horizon in the west. The chill of early spring was starting to wane in the evenings, and this night was unseasonably warm, making it a rare one that was more midsummer than spring.
He opened the door and stepped onto the balcony, taking a deep breath. A scent captured his attention and he stilled, scanning the gardens. He caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye and left the book he’d brought from the library on the wide balustrade. He hurried down the stairs toward the hedgerow. Nobody would dare enter his maze at this hour; it wasn’t safe. Only he knew the layout. He heard a quiet laugh carried to him by the breeze, and his eyes widened. It had to be her.
Francine laughed as she ran without consideration, her skirts gathered up almost to her waist, allowing her strong legs their freedom. The breeze through her hair lifted her spirits, the realization that she’d escaped the manor and was doing something reckless more than exhilarating. She felt like she’d shed all of her previous life’s trappings and was free, finally free. She let out an excited cry that sounded more like a chirp through her wounded vocal chords and bolted around another corner, nearly losing her footing on the soft grass. She was ridiculously giddy and didn’t care if she never came out of the gardens or returned to her stuffy old life. She felt drunk and wildly out of control as she ran through tunnels and around corners with no regard for where she was headed.
What would those prim and proper people think of me running willy-nilly through the garden in a nightgown and no shoes? She stopped abruptly. If I get caught, he’ll send me away. Taking a deep breath, she forced the thought from her head before continuing on.
She was gasping hard and felt a stitch in her side, but she kept going: right, left, left, right, until she turned a corner and ran straight into what felt like a fabric-covered brick wall. She bounced off and was thrown back against the hedge wall. In a daze, she let go of the hem of her skirts and tried to catch her breath. Large hands seized her waist.
“No!” she cried
as her breath hitched and she twisted in the grip. She tried to get a leg up to kick her attacker but he was too close, looming over her and backing her up against the hedge. She couldn’t see his features, shadowed by the moonlight at his back, and she started to panic. Then he spoke.
“Quiet,” he said. “I came to help.”
She stilled instantly and looked up, straining to see his face as her ears pricked at the voice she knew she’d heard before. “No,” she said gravelly. Why him? Of all people to find me, why him? “I’m fine,” she whispered. “I just needed to get out.” She tried to clear her throat. “I’ve been trapped for so long. I just thought—”
His head tilted toward her as if to hear her better. “You just thought— What?” he asked impatiently, cutting her off. “You just thought you would streak madly through a labyrinth you’ve never seen, in the dead of night, laughing like a madwoman the entire way? Is that what you thought?”
“No, I— You don’t understand.” She tried to wriggle free of his steely grip. “You need to let go of me!” she said as her voice broke, angered by his rigid hold. She tried to clear her throat but it tightened.
He released her and backed away, taking her hand. “This way.” He moved before she was ready and she tripped as she tried to grab her skirts with her other hand. She could hardly keep up with his pace, but his strength pulling her through the turns helped her to regain some of the reckless freedom she’d felt earlier, save the guiding hand on her wrist. She covered her mouth with the edge of her skirts to stifle a heady giggle as he pulled her into a small clearing and let go of her abruptly, then strode a few feet away.
The clearing was circular and had several openings leading back into the hedgerow. In the center was a large white marble fountain with several terraces spilling water down into a raised pool at the base. She wanted to put her tired feet in, but she looked at the stiff back of the duke and thought better of it. She started to make a mocking face at him, but froze at the sight of tension stiffening his shoulders. He shoved his hair back from his face. She clasped her hands in front of her waist as he turned to face her, standing straight and tall.
“I apologize that we have not been, and now will not be, properly introduced. I am Gideon Alrick Trumbull, tenth Duke of Roxleigh. You have been a guest at my estate since an unfortunate accident. You ran from my wood, into my meadow, startling my horses and causing the death of an unknown foxhound.” He paused, one eyebrow arched. She shook her head after a moment and he continued. “Mrs. Weston has been keeping me apprised of your continued recovery. It appears to me that you are, in fact, well recovered, since you are able to run haphazardly through my hedgerows with no regard for your safety. Now, why don’t you tell me something of yourself?”
He challenged her with his gaze, with his stance—his legs spread slightly, his hands clasped at his back, his spine straight and his shoulders rigid. She exhaled slowly, gawking at the vision before her. But she advanced toward him, carefully attempting to speak.
“Well, um. Hmmm.” She tried to clear her throat once more but failed. She patted it gently with her fingers then tried again. Finally she whispered. “My name is Francine Larrabee, and I have no idea how I came to be in your wood, on your estate, or under your horses,” she said sardonically as she returned his gaze head on.
She caught the heady scent of him, an intoxicating blend of clean male skin matched with a spicy soap and the tang of sweat, and her skin pricked in reaction. His very presence was dizzying. She floated between his half-raised arms, electricity sizzling across her flesh. She blushed as he continued to stare at her, a half-terrified look on his face. There was something else in those eyes—anger, yes; trepidation, absolutely. But beneath those: fear, longing…and pain. She desperately wanted to allay his anxious demeanor.
“I was lonely,” she whispered. “I very much appreciate everything you’ve done for me, and if there is any way I can repay your kindness—”
She looked down, breaking the connection, suddenly embarrassed by the expression on his face. She realized too late that she shouldn’t have said something like that to this obviously virile man who also happened to be a complete stranger. “I just meant that someday, somehow, I would like to repay your kindnesses toward me, even if it is just a token.”
When she lifted her chin she took in more of him. She liked the way his hair curled slightly at his nape and wanted to run her fingers through the thick waves. She wanted to smell it, rest her cheek against it, float her fingers across his skin. Before she knew it, she was moving forward again.
Francine realized how much pleasure she took in watching him. His movements made her skin over-sensitive, with a keen awareness that gathered in her belly. She could see he was concentrating greatly, his breath steady and determined, his muscles undulating the fabric of his shirt. She also noticed the outline of the large muscles of his legs against the fabric of his pants. She looked back up to his sharp white shirt, which fell open at the neck, and watched as his ribcage moved.
Roxleigh realized his posturing had done nothing to faze her as she quietly swept forward like a spirit. She drew up to him, whispering closely so he could hear her over the rushing water of the fountain. He felt a ripple of tension extend from his core, lifting his arms and tingling in his fingertips. He tensed as he looked into her eyes and stood perfectly still, hands flung out, entirely unsure of her nearness.
He nodded once, very aware of her proximity, and backed up a pace, then leaned against the edge of the fountain, drawing a broad smile from her. He cocked his eyebrow.
“May I?” she whispered, quietly motioning to the fountain. Her eyes were sparkling, the color of the sea washing up on a sandy beach, and he nodded, captivated by the intensity of her gaze. She took three steps and sat on the edge of the fountain, then swept her feet over the side and into the water, sighing heavily as she pulled her skirts up to her knees.
He watched her small feet, her delicate ankles and surprisingly muscular legs, as they lowered into the water. His gaze moved up as her legs descended, catching sight of the exquisite bones of her knee, the crease which circled the back of her leg and was covered with sensitive flesh. His mouth went dry and his stomach clenched as he imagined his finger running along that line. He jerked and turned, pushing away from the fountain as she looked up.
“You don’t have electricity. How is this possible?” she whispered.
He looked back at her, puzzled, then glanced at the fountain. “A siphon, from the cistern built by the Normans,” he explained before walking away. Good Lord. How am I to survive this? He strolled around the fountain, in desperate need of distance, watching her from the corner of his eye. It hadn’t been even an hour since he had considered her while taking his pleasure. Her skin was creamy and freckled, with a subtle hint of pink flushing the surface from the chill of the water. Her arms and legs were long and lissome, but not as soft as most women of age. Her limbs had the shadows of definition that hinted at exertion. She has strength, he thought excitedly. Could she possibly be a rider, or is she merely fond of walks? I did find her running through the maze--not exactly an acceptable form of exercise for a lady.
He was mesmerized by her movements as she wiggled her feet back and forth rapidly under the water, then straightened her legs in front of her, letting the water run off her skin in rivulets, dripping to the surface of the pool and drawing quiet coos and sighs from her. He smiled at this small token of pleasure he had brought her, then scowled, wondering why he should care.
He turned away again, his breath becoming more rapid. He felt her gaze on him and looked back over his shoulder. She smiled as she watched the chilled water running off her feet. His breath caught in his throat as he felt his loins tighten with need. Or was it want? How inconvenient. He turned toward her and spoke, attempting to strengthen his voice with the appropriate firmness. “Miss, you should not uncover yourself in such a familiar manner. It is hardly proper behavior for a lady,” he said stiffly.
&n
bsp; Francine frowned and pulled her feet up to the bench. She tugged the nightdress down over her toes and leaned her chin on her knees, wrapping her arms around her legs and inspecting him.
That was a mistake. The way her lower lip jutted out in a frown made him want to nip at it. His lips pulled back from his teeth almost instinctively, as if to do so, before he turned his back once more. His chest tightened and he bent over, leaning his hands against his knees. Bloody hell! Breathe, damn you. He groaned. He’d never been affected like this. He glanced back at her.
She tilted her head, watching him, her brow furrowed. He could see her taking him in and her inspection only drove his passion higher.
After what seemed an eternity, he straightened and continued around the fountain, brushing past her quickly. He faced away from her, straight as an arrow, his arms crossed over his chest. He took a deep breath and turned toward her, bending one knee and resting his boot at the edge of the fountain, tapping his thigh with his clenched fist.
Francine reached toward him with one dainty hand, then drew back sharply when he raised his arm to block her. “Just—give me a moment,” he said slowly, pleadingly, as his breathing began to slow. He was fighting to keep from being overwhelmed by his baser instincts, but just the smell of her at this point was enough to send him over the edge. Even so, he couldn’t force himself to move away again.
How could the sight of one small, feminine ankle be enough to send all his blood rushing to his groin? He felt a deep pressure begging for release and he hoped he could steady his body enough for the passion to recede. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen at least that much of a woman’s body before, and more. He was well practiced in the art of pleasure, but even more practiced in the art of discipline, and as such his body shouldn’t react to this girl without his permission.