Her heart gave a familiar jolt, then dipped as she recalled his perfidy.
‘I hope I am not interrupting,’ he said smoothly, looking at Mary.
‘Not at all.’ She gave him the benefit of that sugary smile and was pleased when his eyes widened. ‘I thought you weren’t joining us for dinner.’
His lordship gave her a piercing stare. ‘I’m not.’ He sat down at the head of the table. Mary was glad she was at the other end, opposite Gerald, for the earl had a glitter about his eyes and a set look to his jaw that did not bode well. He was looking at her with angry suspicion, no doubt frustrated at the failure of his plan. She focused on the food on her plate. If she looked at him, she might give away her anger. Her rage.
He waved off the plate that Manners offered him and poured himself a glass of the burgundy from the decanter near his elbow. He leaned back in his chair and, against her will, Mary found her gaze drawn to him, to the form of the man. The solid strength. The way his coat hugged his manly shoulders.
She forced her gaze back to her plate.
No one said a word.
It was as if his presence had dampened any pretence of civilised conversation.
Mrs Hampton signalled to Manners to clear the table. ‘Will you take tea in the drawing room with me, Miss Wilding?’ she asked as she rose and the gentlemen followed suit.
‘Miss Wilding is otherwise engaged,’ Beresford said. He glowered at the two younger men. ‘Why don’t you two fellows go off for your usual game of billiards and leave me and Miss Wilding to our conversation?’
The chairs went back and the cousins followed Gerald’s mother out of the room.
Cowards.
But she didn’t really blame them. She wished she could follow them, but she seemed to be pinned to her chair by that bright steely gaze fixed on her face. He gestured for the servants to leave.
Her mouth dried. She could hear her heart beating faster than she would like. He looked different tonight, less controlled. He sipped at his wine, watching her over the rim. A muscle ticked in the side of his face. ‘What the devil did you think you were doing?’
She sat bolt upright in her chair. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Running off like that when my back was turned.’
It took a moment for her to understand. And then the answer came to her. He was making out that he thought she had tried to run away. How very clever of him. Did he think she would play along with his pretence? She pressed her lips together and lifted her chin.
He glared at her. ‘Why go to such trouble, when you knew I would fetch you back?’
It would have been a miracle if he could have brought her back from the dead. She bit her tongue. She must not arouse his suspicions. Not let him know that she understood full well what he was up to. ‘I got lost.’ She watched his face for a reaction. All she got was a sound of derision.
‘Believe what you will,’ she said calmly, keeping her gaze steady with his.
‘Then it seems I owe you an apology, Miss Wilding,’ he drawled.
She could not imagine he was apologising for pushing her down a hole in the ground. ‘Why?’
‘Why what?’
‘Why do you owe me an apology?’
He pushed his chair back and in a few lithe strides came to stand by her chair, looming, dark, still angry. He made her feel very small indeed. And that was quite a feat.
‘I apologise for assuming you had broken your word and left without informing me.’ He sounded as if he didn’t believe what he was saying.
Because he knew it wasn’t true. He knew she’d only wandered a little way down one of the tunnels. ‘Apology accepted,’ she said with remarkable calm. ‘What made you seek me on the road?’
‘One of the men said he glimpsed someone climbing the ladder. I was surprised not to find you in the courtyard.’
‘Did he now?’ She could not keep the sarcasm from her voice.
He gave her a puzzled look. ‘He did.’
‘All is well that ends well, then.’
He glowered. ‘From now on, I will be keeping a very close eye on you, madam.’
She almost groaned out loud. ‘If it will stop me from getting lost, I would much appreciate it.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘Don’t think to play your tricks off on me.’
‘My tricks. What tricks would those be?’
‘You know very well what I am talking about.’
‘Was there anything else you wanted to say to me?’
He looked as if he wanted to throttle her. ‘Not at this moment.’
‘Then if you will excuse me, I will retire.’
‘No.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘No I will not excuse you. We will go to the drawing room, take tea like sensible people, and enjoy some civilised conversation.’
‘I don’t believe you know how to have a civilised conversation. How to give orders, yes. How to impose your will on others, yes. But conversation? Sadly not.’
A pained look flashed across his face as if her words had the power to wound. Hardly. Annoyance was what she was seeing, nothing else. Annoyance that she wasn’t just falling willy-nilly in with his wishes.
‘You will excuse me, my lord. It has been a long and tiring day. I have no wish for conversation, civilised or otherwise.’
She rose to her feet. He stood up. As always, she was taken aback by the sheer size of him. The width of him. The height. She had to lift her chin to gaze into his eyes, to show him her determination. And he did not give, not one inch.
He gazed back, his eyes cold. ‘You speak as if I am the one at fault for your weariness, Miss Wilding.’ His mouth tightened. ‘If you had stayed with your party—’ He closed his eyes briefly. Took a breath as if mustering all of his patience. ‘What is done is done. But understand, I will not have you wandering off again.’
‘More commands? And where do you think I will go, my lord? I have no home, no relatives, no position of employment.’
‘You do have one position.’ His voice softened. ‘Mary, after our conversation in the carriage I thought...I had the impression...’
She lifted her chin and allowed a chill to creep into her voice. ‘What impression, my lord? That I had succumbed to your very obvious attempt at seduction?’
Pain filled his eyes. For once she had no trouble recognising his emotion and something horrid twisted inside her, like the blade of a knife slicing its way into her heart. Was she mad? She did not care if her words caused him pain. Could not.
She turned her face away, so she did not have to look into those fascinating silver-grey eyes, or to gaze on his handsome face. She was all too easily swayed by his wiles.
She was like a rabbit fascinated by the snake whose only intention was to make it the next meal. Little fool.
‘If you will excuse me, my lord? I find myself exhausted by the day’s events.’
He stepped back, frowning. ‘Then I must bid you goodnight, Miss Wilding.’
He held out his hand for hers.
Reluctantly she accepted his courtesy, intending to rest her fingers lightly in his, but when his hand curled around it and he brought it up to his lips, she winced at the pain of it.
He tensed and glanced down. Before she could stop him he had gently peeled off her cotton glove and revealed the grazed skin and broken nails. His face hardened. ‘These are the lengths to which you would go?’ The anger in his voice was unmistakable. He released her hand. Strode to the door, opening it. He paused. ‘Miss Wilding, if there was any other way, believe me, I would not do this.’
Do what? Kill her? Was that supposed to make her feel better?
Her chest squeezed painfully.
Chapter Eleven
Back in her chamber, Mary picked up the little history book and turned to the maps. It clearly showed the tunnel to the old ruins. Hopefully it was in as good condition as the one running beside her chamber.
She put on her warmest gown, the last of the ones she ha
d brought with her from Wiltshire, and donned her practical half-boots. She lay down on her bed to rest before it was time to leave, unable to stop herself from pondering Beresford’s last words.
The bleakness in his voice had touched a chord deep inside her, started an ache. A feeling she was missing something important. Sometimes she felt as if he was speaking in riddles.
She shook the feeling off. He was playing her again, like a fish on a line. Turning her on her head. But each time she heard those whispered words in her head and what he had said when he jumped down from the carriage: You little fool. For some reason she could not match them up. It was as if the words were spoken by two different people, for two very different reasons.
Or was it simply his seductive kisses turning her upside down, making her want to believe he was not the cause of her fall? Her long, deliberately forgotten dreams of a home, a husband, children playing at her feet, a real family, conspiring to make her yearn to believe in his innocence, to believe the seduction and not the facts.
Why did she want to believe? Had her foolish heart done something she had sworn she would never do again—could it be possible she had fallen for him?
Despite everything she knew.
If so, she really deserved all that had happened.
A numbness crept into her chest. The sort of emptiness she’d felt after she’d learned the truth about Allerdyce, only deeper. Colder. It was the only way not to feel the pain of knowing he’d sooner kill her than marry her.
And so she must leave. Without regrets. Without feeling anything. She got up and carried her candle to the clock on the mantel. Two in the morning. The household would be asleep by now. She wrapped her cloak around her and pulled up the hood. She had no valise. Nothing to carry except her reticule and that she had tied around her waist under her skirts for safekeeping.
Quietly she opened her chamber door.
It creaked.
She held still, waiting, wondering if the alarm would be raised. Nothing. She opened it a little more. And then she saw him. Beresford. Sitting on the bottom of the circular stairs leading up to the room above.
She froze, waiting for him to leap up and force her back into her room.
His chest rose and fell in deep even breaths. She raised her candle higher and saw that his eyes were closed. He was sleeping, his head resting against the rough stone wall, his large body sprawled across the steps, in a sleep of utter exhaustion.
In sleep he looked so much younger, as if all the hard lessons of life had been washed away and he was a boy again, with high hopes and sweet dreams. Her heart ached for that unsullied boy she had never met.
What was he doing here outside her door? Making sure she could not leave, obviously. Was that how he had arrived at her room so quickly the other night? No wonder he looked so weary if he had taken to sleeping here. One wrong sound and he would awaken and no doubt lock her up in her room.
She had to hurry, before he awoke and caught her. But somehow she could not drag herself away. She would never see him again and the sense of loss was almost more than she could bear.
Because, in spite of everything, in spite of the coldness he wore like armour against the world, she had glimpsed a softer and kinder side. And, yes, a vulnerable side that called to her in ways she did not understand, as well as a seductive side she found almost irresistible. Which she should not be thinking about now, but somehow she could not help it as she gazed at his face, at the small frown between his brows. He looked troubled and she wanted to smooth those cares away. She longed to press her lips to his lovely mouth and lose herself in his wonderful kiss.
She loved him.
The realisation filled her chest in the region of her heart with a sweet kind of ache.
Why not stay? Why not accept his offer of marriage? Perhaps in time, there would even be children despite what he had said. Had it not always been her dearest wish? A home. A family of her own.
And live her life knowing he would never return her love.
The thought sliced her heart to ribbons. She pressed a hand to her ribs to ease the terrible pain.
He stirred, shifting position, looking for ease he wouldn’t find on the cold hard stone. If he awoke now, she would surely be lost. The next time he assaulted her with kisses and sweet seduction, she would be unable to resist.
To love and not be loved, it was all she had known. But with him it would be a disaster. She could feel it in her bones.
The was no other choice. She had to go.
Heavy-hearted, she crept over the threshold and closed the door behind her. Once more she glanced down at his sleeping form and had the wild urge to press her lips to his mouth. To bid him farewell. But she couldn’t.
Instead she crept away, like a thief in the night, and took the stairs down to the cellar, the stairs he had brought her up that very first night, before either of them knew about the will. The first time he had kissed her.
She would never forget his kisses as long as she lived. When he was kissing her, she felt alive, like a different person, strong, sure and, heavens help her, beloved.
It was all a lie. A figment of her foolish longings. He didn’t want her. He’d made it perfectly clear he didn’t. He was being forced into this by a man he hated. And in time indifference might well turn to hate.
At the bottom of the stairs she turned left, away from the sound of the sea. Halfway along the wall, there was another sconce. Another entrance to yet another secret passage, if the map was correct. And this one would lead her outside to the old Abbey ruins.
She twisted the sconce.
Nothing happened.
Her heart rose in her throat. She’d got it wrong. Blast. She’d left the book in her room. She couldn’t check the map. She’d been so sure she had memorised it correctly.
She glanced up and down the hallway, lifting her candle. There were no other sconces. She tried again. Twisting hard. She felt it shift. A little. It was stiff from disuse, perhaps.
She put the candle down and used both hands. The sconce turned painfully slowly. And the grinding noise echoed down the hallway. Heaven help her, Beresford would hear it. She had to hurry.
She wrenched it hard. The wall moved a little, then a little more, and then it opened fully. She picked up her candle and darted inside, found the mechanism on the other side and closed it behind her.
Now all she had to do was make it out to the ruins and run as fast as she could. And never look back.
* * *
The cold seeped into her bones. She felt as if she had been walking for hours, but she knew it was far less than that. Betsy had been right about the impending snow. It was up over her ankles and made walking difficult. And the wind seemed determined to impede her, too. It gusted this way and that, tearing at her cloak, blowing flurries of snow in her face so she couldn’t see where she was going. Not that she could see much at all, it was so dark.
But if it was too dark to see her way, then it was too dark for anyone to find her. She clung to that hope and forged on. Going east. Keeping the wind on her right, as best as she could tell, because it constantly changed direction.
And she had to be correct, because the sound of the sea had faded away. She was heading into the countryside. Towards Halstead. Soon she should come across a road, with signposts and milestones and then she would be able to take her bearings.
She stopped to catch her breath, to look behind her for signs of pursuit. Nothing. Just the wind and the blowing snow. Hopefully his lordship was still sleeping outside her chamber door. He was going to be very angry when he awoke and found her gone. Hopefully that would not occur until later in the morning. She’d asked Betsy not to wake her too early, complaining of being tired.
It was all she could do.
She struggled on. The snow was drifting now. Getting deeper in some places and leaving the ground bare in others. And it also seemed to be lessening. She looked up at the sky and saw the glimmer of the moon through scudding clouds. Then a patch o
f stars.
The storm was over.
Her heart picked up speed. Even more reason to hurry. But now, with the moon casting light and shadow over the landscape at irregular intervals, she could see her way. See the line of a hedge that marked the edge of a field. See the moors rising in their white blanket off to her left. If she could just see the road. She looked around for a landmark. Something to tell her where she was. How far from the Abbey she had come.
Not far enough yet. She knew that. Not if his lordship was determined to find her. She would have to find a place to hide, somewhere he wouldn’t look for her.
Again she glanced back over her shoulder. And gazed in horror. Oh, dear lord, what had she been thinking? That the snow would hide her? There, tracking across the field, was the dark imprint of where she had walked. She’d left the easiest trail for him to follow.
Wildly she glanced around her. She needed to find the road. Somewhere where other people walked and drove. Somewhere where her footsteps could not be identified.
She took careful stock of her surroundings and headed for the hedge where the snow was piling up on one side and clinging to the top and leaving the ground bare on her side.
Once in the lea of the hedge, with her footsteps no longer clearly visible to the most casual observer, she retraced her steps, going back on herself, hoping that he would not realise she would dare take such a risk.
She pulled her cloak around her, tried to ignore that her hands were freezing and her feet turning to blocks of ice and hurried on, taking the hedgerows, zigzagging in different directions, until she was dizzy, with no clue where she was. And still she did not find a single lane or road.
Yet there had to be one.
Had to be. She sank down to the ground to catch her breath, to think. She was exhausted. Tired. It would be just so easy to sleep for a while. To gain her strength.
Not a good idea, to sleep out here in the open. People froze to death under such circumstances. She had to find a place out of the wind. An inn. A barn. Any kind of structure. A flurry of snow stung her face. She frowned. Why was she panicking? The snow had been falling when she left the Abbey. It would have covered all traces of her footprints, and if these flurries kept up, then by morning there would be no sign for Bane to follow. Bane. She must not think of him as Bane. He was the Earl of Beresford. And a man who wished her at Jericho. Or worse.
Haunted by the Earl's Touch Page 18