And she was as trapped as he.
The walls enclosed a small estate, mostly woodland, although she’d noticed well-tended gardens and orchards close to the house. In other circumstances, she’d find her surroundings appealing, even beautiful. In this nightmare of compulsion and dread, the burgeoning spring growth encroached and threatened.
The sheer efficiency of these walls was most terrifying of all. This prison indicated wealth, endless resources, cleverness, determination. It indicated someone formidable enough to take an innocent woman captive and ruthless enough never to release her.
This place was impregnable. She’d passed only one gate, chained and barred, constructed of solid oak. Near the gate there was an untidy huddle of buildings, barns, stables, yards, a cottage.
Her jailers had been sitting on a bench against the cottage wall, passing an earthenware jug between them. The purposeful intensity of their drinking had been obvious even from where she crouched in the bushes a hundred yards away. Their laughter held a lewd note that made her shudder. Although she couldn’t hear what they said, she knew they gloated over what they imagined the marquess did to her.
She didn’t fool herself they were inebriated enough to let her slip past. Living in a poor farming community, she’d met men of their ilk, although she’d never encountered quite their level of viciousness. Pigs like her abductors didn’t become insensible with spirits, they became mean.
She’d taken a deep breath in a futile attempt to quell her rioting stomach. Then she’d crept away to continue her search.
Now she was back where she’d started. No closer to escape than when she’d fled the beautiful madman with his cold voice and hungry eyes.
The wretched realization battered at her that she could die within these walls and nobody would know. Her aching belly cramped with another surge of panic. She was lightheaded with hunger and thirst, and her stomach still heaved with nausea. Under her now-buttoned collar, sweat prickled uncomfortably at her neck.
Dear heavens, she was weary to her very soul. She slumped to the dusty ground. Even if her unsteady legs carried her further, there was nowhere to go.
“Think, Grace, think,” she whispered, seeking courage in the sound of her own voice.
The words faded to nothing. Trembling with exhaustion and fear, she bent her head to stave off tears. Her eyes were still scratchy from the crying she’d done over Josiah and the loss of the farm. Tears had done no good then. They’d do no good now.
She desperately needed food. Even if her stomach revolted at the mere idea. Perhaps after dark, she could sneak closer to the house and steal from the gardens.
Was it likely she’d remain free to wander the park? Her captors would flush her from the greenery like beaters flushed pheasants for the hunters’ guns.
She smothered a bitter laugh. Josiah Paget’s penniless widow had thought she’d measured disaster. She hadn’t known what trouble was then.
“Pleasing to see you haven’t abandoned your sense of humor,” a deep, subtly mocking voice said.
She raised her head and met the lost, compelling eyes of the man who had held her while she vomited. He stood before her with rangy ease. A wolfhound sidled close to him. One elegant hand lowered and negligently stroked the dog’s shaggy head.
“No!” she gasped, scrambling to her feet. Logic told her she lacked the strength to evade him. Her galloping heart insisted she try.
“Wolfram,” he said quietly. The huge hound bounded forward to bring her to bay against the oak behind her. “There’s no point running. You must know that by now.”
Over the animal’s rough back, she glowered at the picturesque monster who tormented her. “If it delays your assault on me, that’s point enough,” she said in a voice that shook no matter how she fought to steady it.
The accusation was meant to sting. But the honey mosaic gaze didn’t waver. “If the client isn’t to your taste, I can only apologize. Although I wouldn’t have thought a whore could be too fussy about who she opens her legs to.” Acid contempt laced his words.
She drew herself up to full height. This time, her voice was firm and edged with outrage. “I am no whore. Those swine you employ brought me here against my will. Any man with a shred of honor would do his utmost to restore me to my family.”
“But I am not a man of honor.” His mobile mouth curled in the already familiar sardonic smile. “I am just a poor helpless lunatic.”
He stepped forward with a loose-limbed ease that Grace couldn’t help noticing and rested his hand on the dog’s neck. The movement brought him dauntingly close. She edged away until the dog’s soft growl forced her to freeze.
Her brief defiance evaporated. “Please let me go,” she said brokenly.
His brows drew together in irritation. “I pray you, madam, cease this charade,” he snapped, his long fingers tightening in the dog’s brindle coat. “My uncle, Lord John Lansdowne, paid you to come here and ply your trade. It was clever to invent this fanciful tale of abduction. But the widow’s weeds, the panic, the pleading, even the induced sickness, none gull me into believing your story. I am wise to your trickery.”
“You’re mad,” she breathed, as the nightmare closed around her in a blinding fog.
He shrugged. “Surely my uncle cannot have neglected to inform you of that. What other reason could he offer for my confinement?”
She shook her head in bewilderment. The impossible thing was he looked as sane as any man she’d ever known, even while his words made no sense. She focused on the part that was easiest to deny.
“I’ve never met your uncle.”
An expression of haughty displeasure crossed his features. “You cling to your lies. No matter. You’ll tire of the masquerade.” He turned away. “Come, Wolfram.” Obediently, the hound trotted after him as he strode off.
Disbelievingly she watched the retreat of that straight back in its loose white shirt.
“You’re leaving me here?” She cursed the words for emerging as protest rather than demand.
“Follow me back to the house or stay out here for Monks and Filey to find when they check the grounds,” he said without looking at her. His tone was indifferent and his manner was dismissive as he walked off.
Her trembling fingers dug into the rough bark behind her. “But you mean to rape me,” she said shakily.
He paused to send her an unreadable glance over his shoulder. “Perhaps not immediately.”
She looked into those odd eyes and wondered why she was convinced that at least for now, he posed no physical threat.
Which was absurd as he admitted he was mad, he’d made no promises, and he clearly harbored misconceptions about what sort of woman she was. All she had to weigh against these facts was that he’d been kind when she was ill. And he was yet to hurt her.
“Who are you?” She straightened and lifted her chin.
Again, that grim smile. “Why, I am the master of this pathetic kingdom, my lady.”
She swallowed sick nervousness. “Does this master have a name?”
He faced her fully so the sun gilded his high cheekbones. “Didn’t my uncle tell you?”
“Indulge me,” she said unsteadily.
“As you wish.” He bowed as though they’d been introduced at a ball. The elegance of the sarcastic gesture made the breath catch in her throat. “I am Matthew Lansdowne, Marquess of Sheene.”
She frowned. Could she trust what he said? The Marquess of Sheene was one of the richest men in England. What was he doing here, locked away from the world?
His henchmen called him the marquess. The luxury of his surroundings indicated someone with gold to ensure comfort. Perhaps he really was who he claimed to be.
His attention fixed upon her as though she were a botanical specimen. It was unnerving. Or would have been if her nerves didn’t already jangle. “Will you do me a similar favor?”
“What do you mean?”
A shadow of impatience darkened that striking face. “Your nam
e, girl. What is it?”
She spoke without thinking. “Grace Paget, my lord.”
“Grace,” he said musingly, his eyes never leaving her.
She had no illusions about what he saw. A faded woman in shabby clothing who had endured too much sorrow and witnessed too much privation.
Then she wondered why she minded. She didn’t want him to notice her as a man noticed a woman. Her situation was precarious enough.
She waited for some comment on her name, perhaps a remark that it didn’t suit her. The recollection of how she’d been sick in front of him revolted her. She had a sudden sharp memory of his care for her. Surely someone so considerate in such circumstances wouldn’t use her against her will.
But what did she know of men her own age? Josiah had been old and the blood had run sluggishly in his veins. She recognized the virile strength in the marquess’s lean, youthful body. And if he spoke true, he was a great lord, used to getting what he wanted at the snap of his fingers. As if to prove her right, he clicked his fingers to summon the dog who nosed at a pile of last year’s leaves.
This man offered a buffer against Monks and Filey. Her only buffer.
What he’d want in return she didn’t dare contemplate. If his sole purpose was bed sport, he could have had her when she was bound to the table.
She didn’t trust him. But what alternative did she have?
Wondering if she cast her lot with the Devil, she straightened away from the tree and followed him.
Grace trudged behind the marquess until they reached the clearing around the house. During the long walk from the boundaries, her panic faded into a haze of weariness.
The man—Lord Sheene, she supposed—paused at the edge of the trees and waited for her to catch up. The sun sank in the west and gold rays etched his tall figure with brilliance. She blinked. Something about his stance struck her as ineffably sad.
He looked magnificent standing there. And lonelier than anyone she’d ever seen.
The unwelcome perception vanished as Wolfram turned back to sniff at her skirts. A soft exhalation of surprise escaped her.
“He won’t bite.” Lord Sheene’s eyes were intent on her. Clearly, he’d forgotten in his isolation that it was rude to stare.
Her lips flattened in self-derision. Rude to stare? This man could claim use of her body. His eyes were the last things she needed to worry about.
Banishing the disturbing thought, she looked down into the dog’s intelligent yellow gaze. “I like dogs.”
She’d had dogs on the farm. At times, they had seemed the only beings in creation capable of unconditional love. She reached out to let the impressive beast sniff her fingers before she scratched behind his ears. Wolfram’s eyes closed in rapture. It was the first normal reaction she’d received from anything or anyone in this strange prison. She smiled down at the hound.
Whenever she was with the marquess, unsettling currents of awareness swirled around them. Now the soft air shivered with a sharp turbulence that made the fine hairs stand up on her skin.
She whipped her head up in confusion. Lord Sheene glared at her, his gaze fixed on her mouth as if poison dripped from her lips. Her smile faltered and disappeared. She whipped her hand away from Wolfram. What had she done to arouse this savage displeasure?
“You’ve made a conquest, I see,” the marquess said harshly. “Don’t expect everyone here to come to heel at your merest simper.”
Open-mouthed with shock, she watched him stalk off as if he could no longer bear the sight of her. Wolfram immediately pulled away to trail after his master.
Grace stayed behind, dizzy with fear and confusion. The marquess’s mercurial shifts of temperament frightened her, left her floundering and disoriented. Perhaps he truly was mad. He was certainly angry. Was he an ally? Was he a threat? Right now she couldn’t have said.
Gradually, her heartbeat slowed. She watched Lord Sheene stride toward the house, then turned to observe her surroundings. An unlikely setting for one of the nation’s greatest noblemen. The large cottage wasn’t imposing. It basked before her, the old red brick glowing in the mellow light. The house looked warm and welcoming. The house looked like home.
And danger thickened with every second.
She’d already realized that in this place, appearance and reality engaged in eternal battle. She must keep her wits about her that she didn’t mistake one for the other and come to destruction.
She shivered. Without Lord Sheene, the trees behind her held an ominous air, for all their beauty. A sudden fancy took her that her abductors ogled her from the thick woods. She dredged up the energy to stumble across the smooth green lawn after the marquess.
Grace looked into the mirror in the charming bedroom that the marquess had indicated was hers. Terrified eyes stared back and she chewed nervously on her lower lip, a childhood habit she’d never broken.
“You’ve survived so far,” she whispered to her reflection. “You will keep surviving.”
If only she believed it.
Swallowing her dread before it strangled her, she picked up one of a heavy set of silver men’s brushes from the dresser and hurriedly rebraided her hair. She’d managed a wash and she’d removed the worst of the dust from her dress but she still looked tired and hungry and poor. And far too frail to fend off lecherous noblemen.
In the glass, she saw Lord Sheene prowl into the room behind her. The fear Grace had struggled to dam flooded back. The large bed in the corner suddenly loomed as the most significant object in the room. She snatched up the brush like a weapon and whirled around.
He gave a bark of contemptuous laughter. “Do you intend to groom me to death?” He turned back to the door. “Monks has brought dinner in. If you’re contemplating murder, you’ll need to keep your strength up.”
How she hated his effortless superiority. Was this just a game to him? Her fear. Her helplessness. Her resistance. Reviving anger flowed hot through her veins, swamping her earlier cowardice.
Nothing and no one in the last years had defeated her. And nor would this ramshackle lunatic.
She raised her chin and gave him a frosty stare. She might be a Paget now but she’d been born a Marlow and a Marlow had every right to look a Lansdowne in the eye. He’d learn she wasn’t a woman to trifle with. She wouldn’t collapse in abject terror because he had the gall to mock her.
“If you’ll lead the way, my lord?” she said coolly.
With deliberate firmness, she replaced the brush on its silver tray laced with ornate engraved Ls. For Lansdowne, she supposed. Although the letter would better stand for lout or lecher or lunatic.
His gaze sharpened on her face as if he tried to solve a puzzle. She braced herself for more derision, but he merely gestured for her to precede him down the narrow staircase.
In the cottage’s main room, the room she’d escaped earlier with such futile hope, candlelight flickered on polished wood and rich fabrics. The table was laid with gleaming china and crystal.
The whole cottage was furnished in the most expensive taste. The only hint of its real purpose—as a madman’s cell—was that horrible bench where she’d been restrained. The rest of the house conjured ideas of a wealthy man’s love nest.
She blushed. Even if this place were a voluptuary’s hideaway, that didn’t mean she must accept the role of voluptuary’s plaything.
He came up behind her. “The food grows cold.”
Her nerves tightened. She was alone with a powerful and unpredictable monster.
Although when she took her place at the table, she thought he looked anything but a monster. He’d troubled to put on a black coat and a neckcloth. Above the snowy folds, his face was intent and thoughtful. And guarded. Those heavy-lidded eyes and strong bones hid secrets.
Was one of those secrets that he’d lost his mind?
No, he freely admitted that, didn’t he?
He slid a filled plate in front of her then returned to the sideboard for his own meal. The elegance of his
movements distracted her and she took a moment to realize she hadn’t seen food like this since she’d run away from her father’s house at sixteen.
When the marquess sat opposite, he must have caught her dazed wonder. Again, she marked how he studied her. She hid a shiver of fear and despite her exhaustion, sat ramrod straight. He must never guess how close to breaking she was.
“Is the fare not to your liking?” he asked.
Her hesitation over the elaborate dinner stemmed from complex reasons which she refused to share with this terrifying stranger. Her chaotic, disastrous past was nobody’s business but her own.
When she didn’t answer, he went on almost conversationally. “Mrs. Filey tempts my appetite which in recent months has been uncertain.”
It could have sounded like a spoilt aristocrat’s whining complaint. Except she’d noticed immediately that he was too thin for a man of his height. “Filey’s wife does the cooking?”
“Yes. And the cleaning. She, Filey, and Monks are the extent of my staff.”
Grace had already remarked the scarcity of servants. Surely even a mad marquess merited a larger household.
Another mystery.
The greatest mystery of all arched a supercilious brow. “Eat. You have no reason to fear poison. Monks and Filey brought you here for a purpose. They certainly don’t want you dead before you accomplish it.”
“And what do you want?” she asked bravely, while fear danced a wild tarantella along her veins.
He smiled briefly as if at a private joke. “Keep looking at me like that and I’ll tell you.”
She flushed. Clearly, he wasn’t the only one guilty of staring.
He frightened her with his unwavering gaze and barely veiled resentment. But she couldn’t deny his masculine beauty. She’d been married to an old man for nine years. Despite her dread and anger now, she couldn’t resist drinking in the sheer magnificence of the marquess’s physical presence.
Still blushing, she lowered her eyes and sliced into her bœuf en croûte. Her hunger was stronger even than her fear.
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