by Hatch, Donna
An alarm bell clanged inside Christian’s head. “Isn’t she with you?”
“No. Her abigail said she left her room for dinner ten minutes ago. Do you think she took a wrong turn and is lost?”
If she learned Wickburgh had paid them a visit, she was running away. Christian raced to the door to find her before she disappeared.
CHAPTER 10
He was in the house.
She had to escape. Now.
With her heart drumming in her chest and perspiration trickling between her shoulder blades, Genevieve daashed down the servants’ stairs to the kitchen where a cacophony of voices and smells met her. The head cook shouted at her assistants as they bustled about. Amid the chaos, Genevieve slipped out through the kitchen door.
Long shadows fell over her path as she dashed past the herb garden. The purple sky still showed a faint glimmer of red and gold in the horizon cast by the setting sun. Genevieve ran. Cool air stung her cheeks. She’d left the house without a wrap but didn’t dare return for one.
Where would she go? If Wickburgh had search parties, she’d be discovered no matter how far she ran. Perhaps she could hide somewhere on the estate until she found a better solution. Stumbling in her haste, she darted through the gardens, looking for a gardener’s shed she’d noticed earlier that day. But where was it? She dashed along the path where Christian and she had walked so blithely only a few hours ago. The walkway wound through arched bowers, fountains, and statues. On she raced.
Eventually, the manicured area gave way to an open expanse of heather and bracken broken by a stream. The stream glimmered in the late afternoon sun, as if desperately trying to hold onto the fading light and ward off the encroaching darkness. It ran past a cottage, probably a dowager’s house. Darkened windows and bare flowerbeds revealed its disuse. Genevieve fled toward the possible sanctuary. Finding the door locked, she paused, searching for a way in. There. A rock about twice the size of her fist. She hefted the rock and threw it at one of the windows. Glass shattered the silence and sent shards flying inside the cottage. A gaping, ragged hole in the window glared accusingly back at her. One last piece of glass, dangling from the opening, fell and landed on the narrow porch. It scattered glass across the porch.
Twigs snapped and leaves crackled as heavy feet pounded toward her. With a sob, she grabbed one of the larger pieces of glass at her feet. Poised to use the shard as a weapon if necessary, she whirled around and held her breath. A man darted out of the shadows into view.
A male voice broke through her haze of panic. “Genevieve?”
Christian had found her. Her relief only lasted a second. What if he’d come to fetch her and hand her over to Wickburgh? Her breath came in short gasps.
Christian paused, eyeing her. His gaze flicked to the broken window behind her, then back to her. Taking a slow step toward her, he held out his hands. “Easy, Jen. No one will hurt you. I’m not here to drag you back to him.”
Gripping the shard of glass, she searched his face but only found an intensity she could not identify. Was he concerned for her? Or worried that he might not succeed in bringing her back to Wickburgh?
He took another step closer and held out a hand. “Jen?”
Though he seemed to have softened toward her this afternoon, he may have washed his hands of the woman who threw him over for a lord. If she’d learned anything from Wickburgh, men were unpredictable. He might be following Tarrington’s directive to send her back to her husband. Christian had no reason to defy his brother for her sake.
He stepped nearer, still looking at her in that disconcerting manner. “You have nothing to fear from me.”
Hoping a display of cooperation would make him lower his guard until she could escape, she dropped the shard.
Creases formed in his brow. “Lord Wickburgh was here. Looking for you. But you know that, don’t you.” It wasn’t a question.
Her muscles tensed, poised to run.
As if he were approaching a skittish foal, he took another cautious step forward. “We sent him away.”
She searched his face for duplicity, or even any indication of his thoughts. The old Christian would never have lied, but this new, harder Christian was unreadable. She moistened her lips. “If he knows I’m here, he’ll be back.”
He shook his head. “He doesn’t suspect you’re here. He wanted us to notify our tenants that he’s offering a reward for your safe return.”
“Safe return.” She let out a scoff. “He cares nothing about my safety.” The chill night air settled in deeper. Shivering, she hugged herself.
“We told him we knew nothing of your whereabouts.” He drew near enough to touch if she reached for him. “You can trust me, Jen.”
She should run. It might all be some sort of ruse. But his words rooted her feet to the ground and she could only stand motionless. Christian removed his dark superfine frockcoat and laid it over her shoulders. She froze as his hands brushed against her skin. His coat, still warm from his body, smelled of him—earthy, wholly masculine. She clutched the lapels together and filled her nostrils with Christian’s scent. Tears burned her eyes. She ached to trust him, yet fear held her back.
He reached for her. “Come.”
Come. Wickburgh often ordered her to come, usually right before things got worse. Sudden fear sent a burst of cold energy through her veins. She took a step backward, judging the distance between them. She probably couldn’t out run him. Still ....
He grew grave. “Genevieve?”
She lunged for freedom. His grunt of surprise sounded from behind her as she fled recklessly into the growing darkness, stumbling over obstacles in her path. Branches scratched her arms, but she kept running.
“Wait!” His footsteps pounded in pursuit.
She pushed herself harder and lost Christian’s coat but charged onward without slowing. Though her lungs burned and her legs weakened, she ran on. His footsteps followed close behind her, growing steadily nearer. Too close! His breathing rasped directly behind her. Blinded by fear, she plunged on without thought of caution. He caught her by the elbow, halting her, and pulled her against him.
Trapped! Hysteria bubbled up until rational thought fled. She screamed and struggled, but he held her in unyielding arms.
Her breath came out in sobbing gasps. “Let me go!”
His gentle voice wormed through the haze of terror. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
Too weak to fight him, she collapsed against him and wept.
His arms relaxed, no longer keeping her from escaping, merely offering comfort, enfolding her in his warmth, his strength. “You’re safe here. He’s gone.”
Christian held her close, continuing to murmur words of reassurance while she sobbed. He fell silent and simply held her. She rested her head against his chest, solid, strong, safe. She basked in the knowledge that he would never use his strength against her. He wouldn’t have changed that much. Though commanding and larger than life, Christian was not dangerous. No one of Christian’s ilk would change so drastically. He was no Wickburgh, nor ever would be.
Gradually, Genevieve’s fear drained away. Calm edged in, pushing out the last of her fear. Peace filled her soul. She hadn’t bathed in such safety since the last time she stood cradled in the circle of Christian’s arms.
She unclenched her fists and hesitantly put her arms around him. His stomach tightened, but he made no move. Her tears dried and she stood hiccupping within his arms, leaning against the tautness of his stomach, the leanness of his waist, the hard muscles of his chest. His heartbeat kept a steady rhythm underneath her ear. One of his hands rested on her back, the other at the side of her head, his thumb lightly rubbing back and forth across her cheek. He was warmth against the cold and the darkness, even the cold and darkness in her heart.
Night fell, enveloping them in total blackness until the moon rose. A nightingale trilled its song and stars peeped through the black sky. They remained motionless as if fearful of breaking the spell wrapped
around them. Infused in Christian’s warmth and strength, Genevieve clung to him, to the timelessness of this moment in his arms. Her fears melted away like ice under the sun’s rays. All would be well.
A distant voice called, “Mr. Amesbury?”
Christian sighed and his voice rumbled against her ear as he said, “I think we’ve been missed.”
When he released her, cold rushed at her. She longed to crawl back in his arms. But that was foolish. She must leave and build a new life of freedom and safety, and Christian had no place in that new life.
She shivered and rubbed her arms. Then remembered the coat he’d given her. “Oh! Your frockcoat. I—I think I dropped it...” Nervously, she glanced back the way she’d come. Looking up at him, she awaited a show of anger.
He appeared totally unperturbed. “’Tis nothing.”
Heat crawled up her neck and over her face. Of course not. She kept expecting Christian to suddenly turn into Lord Wickburgh. Foolish. She should know better.
Wearing only his waistcoat and shirtsleeves, he held out an arm, and smiled beckoningly, his teeth flashing white in the darkness. “Shall we?”
She gaped at the sheer beauty of the first genuine grin he’d given her since she’d arrived at Tarrington Castle. Pushing away a loose strand of hair away from her eyes, she placed her hand on the crook of his elbow, her gaze locked with his.
With the moonlight caressing his face, he smiled in true warmth. Perhaps he’d overcome his anger and she’d finally gained a measure of forgiveness. Her fears took a step back and she allowed herself one luxurious moment to admire him. Christian was so handsome and masculine with his head proudly held, his shoulders squared, and an aura of power and presence surrounding him, that he transformed into a knight of old, wielding his sword in defense of her honor and making vows of chivalry. She’d never find a more honorable gentleman or a more blatantly desirable man. Or anyone more forbidden.
Dragging her eyes away from his, she took a step and winced as pain shot up her foot.
“What is it?” he asked.
“My foot ... I lost one of my shoes.”
He chuckled softly. “Very well, Cinderella, I suppose I must carry you. We’ll have to look elsewhere for a glass slipper, though.” Without waiting for her permission, he scooped her up into his arms.
She waited for the rakish glint to enter his eyes, or a lewd comment to fall from his well-formed lips, but neither happened. No, he hadn’t changed so much, after all.
With their mouths only inches away, his grin gradually faded as his lashes lowered, concealing his eyes, but the heat of his focus seared her lips. Her heart stalled and then tripped over itself. His lips parted slightly. Dread and excitement rippled over her. The force of his gaze held her captive.
She braced for his kiss, terrified, excited, confused. She relived the gentle sensuality of his kiss a year ago, the way his lips brushed against hers so gently, then hungrily, and later how they’d slanted over her mouth, possessing, claiming ....
Instead of moving closer, he went still. A breathless moment passed. Christian drew a shaking breath, turned his head forward, and began walking.
Shame rippled through her all over again. Christian was an honorable gentleman. He would never seduce a married woman. Twin rivers of relief and disappointment poured into a confusing pool of emotions. Pushing back the knowledge that she would soon leave and never see him again, she reveled in the temporary bliss of being in Christian’s arms, and rested her head against his shoulder.
Lanterns bobbed in the darkness like fireflies. “Mr. Amesbury!”
“I’m here, lads!” he called.
A chorus of voices arose as a search party surrounded them. None of the men showed any surprise that their lord’s brother carried what was probably a very bedraggled-looking woman out of the darkness, nor were there any looks of surprise at her compromised position or his state of dishabille. Christian acted as if nothing unusual were happening. Perhaps he carried stray women home all the time. He certainly seemed to be making a habit of it where she was concerned. It was a credit to the gentleman in him to save even the woman who’d rejected him.
She remained silent in the presence of so many strange men, and rested her head against her white knight while they all tromped through the brambles and heather.
Christian addressed a man nearest him. “Flemming, please send someone to come back in the morning and look for my coat. I appear to have lost it along the way.”
“Yessir,” the man replied amiably.
“Sorry,” she whispered in Christian’s ear.
“I’ll send you a bill,” he murmured lightly, his mouth curved into an easy smile.
As they reached the formal gardens and followed the gravel pathways toward the house, something wet and sticky tickled her cold bare foot. She rubbed it with her other foot, smearing dark liquid across the top of her shoe. She’d only had one pair of shoes, thanks to the charity of a maid, and now she’d lost one and ruined the other. She didn’t dare borrow another pair; the maid probably didn’t have another one to give her.
Light poured from the windows of the castle in greeting. Fear arose. She studied Christian’s face, searching for guilt or a hidden agenda. Glancing at her, he flashed a reassuring smile. Animated, open, and guileless, Christian bore no lurking deceit despite that hardness she’d first seen in him. That had probably been a defensive measure he’d developed to shield himself from the wounds her presence reopened in him. It didn’t mean he’d suddenly changed. She squelched her apprehension and laid her head back on his shoulder while guilt for suspecting him swirled inside her in a dark maelstrom. Christian was nothing like Lord Wickburgh. He never would be. He would also never be hers.
CHAPTER 11
As her knight carried Genevieve toward the back terrace of the house, the other men split off, bidding Christian a good evening, and continued their boisterous talking amongst themselves. More comfortable than she ought to be in Christian’s arms, she lay still, her head on his shoulder, bathing in the fleeting safety Christian’s arms always brought her.
It wouldn’t last, but she’d revel in it while she could. He carried her through open French doors into the back parlor. Lord and Lady Tarrington waited inside. Worry showed clear in Lady Tarrington’s eyes but Lord Tarrington remained impassive as a block of marble.
“Jenny,” Lady Tarrington cried. “I was so concerned. Are you well?”
Her face heated with embarrassment that she’d caused such a scene. She nodded. “Forgive me for worrying you.”
Christian carefully lowered her to a settee. “She ran when she learned Wickburgh had come looking for her.”
Genevieve gave a start, her gaze flying to Christian. Had he revealed her secret?
Lady Tarrington leaned forward. “You didn’t think we’d turn you over to him when it was so obviously against your will?”
Genevieve stared at the floor. Lord Tarrington must have guessed the truth when Wickburgh arrived asking about her. She’d been selfish to expect Christian to lie to his family and foolish to think they wouldn’t figure out she was the missing Lady Wickburgh.
“I’m his wife,” she said softly. “He owns me.”
“Of course he doesn’t,” Lady Tarrington said.
Christian lifted her bleeding foot to examine it. He frowned. “Alicia, ring for a servant, please.”
The countess tugged on a pull at her elbow then sat calmly, smiling in sympathy at Genevieve. Christian sat back on his haunches and looked up at her.
Silent and grim, Tarrington stood beside his wife. “Your husband wants you back, Lady Wickburgh.”
Genevieve’s heart began an erratic staccato. She briefly entertained the idea of bolting, but Christian could out run her. And he’d proven she could trust him so she had no reason to flee again. Besides, she had nowhere to go. She swallowed against a choking lump, feeling very small, and folded trembling hands together. “Yes, I know he wants me back.”
A foo
tman arrived. “You rang?”
Christian replied, “Bring me a bowl of water and some towels.”
The footman bowed and left.
The earl continued, “Lord Wickburgh is telling people you suffered a collapse after you lost your unborn child and that you’re insane.”
At that, she lifted her head. “Do I appear insane?”
The earl’s sapphire gaze probed her. “You did try to take your own life.”
“Cole,” Lady Tarrington gently admonished him.
Genevieve raised her chin a notch higher and stared him down. “Yes. Clearly I was not in my right mind then. It was an act I sincerely regret and am not inclined to repeat.”
“As his wife, it is your duty to return to him.” Did she imagine the challenging glint?
Christian leaped up and faced Lord Tarrington. “She needs no reminder of her duty.”
“The courts would tell her the same thing,” Tarrington said evenly.
Christian took a step closer to his brother and folded his arms. “I’ve given her my word I won’t tell him where she is. And neither will you.”
Genevieve stared at Christian’s transformation. Brothers stood inches apart, glaring with enough heat to melt ice. Of similar height and build, they stood unmoving, nose to nose, Christian with clenched fists, his face set in hard lines. The earl stared back calmly. If he felt surprise at his brother’s passionate outburst, he failed to reveal it.
“We have no right to interfere,” the earl said. “She is married, therefore she owes her husband the truth.”
“She owes that snake nothing.”
“She owes him—”
“Cole, don’t be a bully,” Lady Tarrington interjected. “It’s most un-chivalrous of you.” Humor tinged the firm rebuff while calm, golden-brown eyes fixed on the earl.
Lady Tarrington stood and approached the men, moving with surprising agility for a woman who would soon be in confinement. Without a pause at the challenging stance between her husband and his brother, Lady Tarrington stepped unflinching between the men.