by Julia Ross
“Simply that your most important recent loss has been found. Happy news, I trust?”
Hanley’s lips pulled back as if he faced a ghoul. He fumbled clumsily with the snuffbox.
“Nothing here to concern you, after all, Braughton,” he mumbled. “Seems I brought you from home on a wild-goose chase. I apologize.”
Lord Braughton glanced back at Ryder. “You’ve recovered Lord Hanley’s missing timepiece, sir?”
“No, alas, I found something quite different. However, Hanley was kind enough to put out a search for my mare. I must thank him.”
“Then while you gentlemen exchange news, I’d best return home. Send a description of the stolen horse to me, as well, Ryderbourne. I’ll put some of my lads onto it right away.”
The magistrate bowed, turned on his heel, and left.
“Are you quite well?” Ryder asked Hanley. “You appear to have swallowed rat poison.”
“Damn you to hell, sir!”
“Why? Because a certain lady is in possession of something that you might find embarrassing?”
Hanley swallowed hard. “Then she does have it! The bloody whore! Where is she?”
“Safe.”
“Safe?” The earl laughed with leering bravado. “I already know that you’ve left her holed up in a private parlor with one of your grooms. Careless of you, Ryderbourne, unless you prefer to share your women with all and sundry! There’s not a man jack among my servants who’d not sample a whore’s wares, if given the chance.”
“No doubt. However, there’s no whore in the case this time,” Ryder said. “As for the other matter at hand, shall we discuss it in more privacy? Over a glass of wine, perhaps? Your agitation is attracting some attention, which you might find unwelcome in the circumstances.”
His eyes hollow, the earl glanced about. “If you expose me publicly now, I swear I will kill you.”
“Perhaps. But then, you have control over something that I want, as well. We dislike each other, but neither pleasantries nor insults are necessary. I have a very simple proposition to make.”
Ryder led the way to a private table in a corner and ordered wine. Hanley had regained control of himself, but a tinge of green still lurked at the turn of his nostrils.
“You intend to negotiate for her life?” he said, leaning forward. “Your silence for mine? Why should I believe you’d keep your half of any such bargain? Can you give me one good reason why I shouldn’t bring charges against her right now for Philip Willcott’s death?”
“If you do, I will ruin you.”
Ryder calmly poured wine and watched Hanley toss it back. Perhaps if he stayed as close to the truth as possible, his ruse might yet work, though the sheer enormity of this bluff almost took his breath away.
“How the devil did you find out?”
“Before you and she boarded your yacht in Exeter, Miracle sent a bag of trinkets to her brother for safekeeping. A preacher carried it north for her. Surely you found out about that?”
The earl glanced away, his eyes haggard. “Eventually. A maid at the inn saw her pass the bag to a stranger under my bloody nose, though it took a while for my fellows to get the story out of the girl.”
“But when they did, you guessed immediately what the bag must contain.”
Hanley’s fingers clenched on the stem of his glass. “It wasn’t in her rooms. Willcott hadn’t left it on the yacht. Where else could it be? God! If I had learned earlier about that whore’s treachery—”
“So unfortunate! Especially once you learned that the preacher had been to her brother’s house, but that the man had already left again with most of the bag’s contents intact. Who told you that? The street sweeper?”
“I broke his arm for him. Why the hell did the preacher keep it?”
Ryder forced himself not to lean across the table to choke the life out of his enemy. “It’s a long story, and not one that concerns either of us. Fortunately, Melman turned out to be an honest man, happy to return another’s lost possessions. So I found it first.”
Hanley’s skin gleamed like damp limestone. “Then you’ve read it?”
“A little dishonorable for one gentleman to read another’s secrets, but necessary in the circumstances, as I’m sure you’ll agree.”
“And the item is now in safekeeping to be revealed publicly, no doubt, if you were to meet with any sudden misfortune?” Hanley stared down at his hands, heavily laden with rings, and grimaced. “I should have shot you when I had the chance.”
“You never did have the chance.”
“Never? But now you propose that if I swear not to bring charges against her for Willcott’s murder, you’ll never breathe a word about what you’ve learned?”
Ryder nodded. “She will do the same. Her life is adequate surety for our silence, I would think.”
Hanley poured himself more wine. The neck of the bottle rattled against his glass.
“While she’s your mistress, perhaps. But once you’ve left her behind, your hatred for me will override all this gallantry to a harlot.” His lips twisted as he glanced up. “Or perhaps you’ve forgotten what happened at Harrow?”
“No. I’ve not forgotten.”
“And you’ve never forgiven it, either, have you? Any more than I have!”
“We were boys. It’s of minor importance now.”
Hanley drained his wineglass. “While you’re besotted with her body, perhaps. But you’ll get tired of her. You’ll abandon her for another harlot. You won’t give a damn whether she lives or dies, and your never won’t mean a damn thing. Then you’ll have your revenge and expose me. Why shouldn’t I see her hanged first?”
“Because of what I’m about to tell you.” Ryder took off his simple gold ring and spun it on the table. “The one event that will make you certain that, as long as I live, you’ll be absolutely safe.”
Hanley almost knocked over the bottle. He grabbed and steadied it, his knuckles white on the neck. Then a smile slowly creased his cheeks, before he laughed aloud.
“Oh, God! Will wonders never cease? If you’re really that much of a fool, Ryderbourne, I think we may have a bargain, after all.” He leaned forward, his eyes frosted with ice, and slapped his palm over the ring, then held it up to the light. “But I’ll not give you more than twenty-four hours to do it.”
MIRACLE sewed up her damaged bag, even though her vision was so blurred that the stitches ran crooked. If she simply sat here and did nothing, she would go mad. Why hadn’t she fled to the coast while she still had the chance? Why had she allowed herself to revel in the company of a duke’s son, who had—in the end—nothing to lose?
York stood respectfully in the corner and stared off into the distance, but if she tried to leave the room, he would stop her. Ryder’s servants had such absolute faith in him. Yet Lord Hanley was likely to burst in at any moment with the local magistrate, and she would be arrested.
Under oath she would tell the truth. She had killed a man. She deserved to die.
Yet there was a terrible irony in the idea of a whore losing her life, because she’d been fool enough to first lose her heart!
Miracle tried to flip open her fan with the elegant gesture she had perfected over the years. Ivory snapped as her fist suddenly clenched. Using both hands she spread the fan on the table. Adonis was ruined. She had just crushed him against the Goddess of Love, and the embrace had destroyed him.
She bit her lip and looked up. York was still gazing steadily at the wall, but she thought she saw fear in his eyes. She and the groom were cut from the same cloth, after all. For all of his fine manners, York had no doubt also been born in a cottage.
Men like Ryder snapped their fingers at sudden death, faced with bravado and dash on the dueling ground or the battlefield. Only people like Miracle and York lived with the threat of a slow strangling from the hangman’s rope.
Could she find the courage to face the gallows alone? Would the thought of the cold, distant stars be enough to sustain her?
She was determined to face the inevitable with as much dignity as possible, but she did not want Ryder there. What if she broke down, begging and screaming in the language of a mill child who had once pleaded in vain not to be locked in a dark attic? Though perhaps he would send her a bottle of brandy or a tincture of opium to dull her senses, if she asked for it?
The door burst open. The fan fell to the floor as Miracle leaped to her feet, but it was Ryder, alone. He looked wild, like a falcon bating on its perch.
“See to the horses, York!” he said. “We’re leaving right away.”
The servant bowed and hurried out.
“What happened?” Her heart hammered, choking. “Where’s Lord Hanley?”
“Gone!” Ryder stooped to pick up the fan. His eyes veiled, he gazed at the spoiled painting for a moment.
“What are you concealing from me? You made some kind of a bargain with him? What did it cost you?”
He tossed the fan aside. He seemed feral, dangerous. “Nothing that I care about and far less than I’m gaining.”
“Then you threatened him? Oh, God! You told Lord Hanley that we’d found what he’s searching for, didn’t you?”
“I implied it rather heavily.” Ryder looked up and smiled, as if at some secret triumph. “Hanley certainly believes now that I could ruin him. I’ve no idea what his secret is, but he’ll do anything—even let you go—rather than have it revealed to the world.”
Knees weak, she dropped back into the chair. “Then, since this is all based on bluff, you’ve bought us time, but no more.”
“Time is all we need.” He caught her hand and pulled her to her feet. “You’re not going to die, Miracle. Does anything else matter?”
“You’re taking me to a ship?”
“I’m taking you to a new future, but we must leave now, before Hanley changes his mind.”
She swallowed hard and pulled away. She was certain that Ryder was concealing some staggering secret. She was equally certain that he was not going to tell her. Yet she would not be arrested, after all? She felt giddy, as if he had poured champagne directly into her veins.
He escorted her out to the waiting carriage, but he did not climb in beside her.
York ran out with a gray saddle gelding. Ryder swung onto the horse and leaned down with a quizzical smile.
“There are some other things I must do right away. I’ll meet up with you later.”
The coach horses pulled forward. Ryder spun his mount on its haunches and sped away. A shaft of sunlight blazed as blue-white as Rigel in the gelding’s mane and tail.
If Miracle never saw him again, it was an image that would haunt her until the day that she died: her knight errant, as determined and powerful and terrible as thunder, riding away toward the hills, his pure heart—because of her—now sullied by duplicity.
Meanwhile, her future security was still built on sand. If Lord Hanley found his missing document and realized how he’d been tricked, nothing could save her. Ryder would grieve for a while and then he would forget her. One of those far more suitable young ladies would marry him and give him sons.
There was real comfort in the certainty of his eventual happiness.
Perhaps that—more than thoughts of the great, impersonal universe—would give her the strength, when it came to it, to face death with some serenity.
Yet Miracle had been mostly awake for several nights. In the end, from pure exhaustion, she slept.
VOICES were giving orders. Miracle woke with a start. Her pulse jolted into a pounding panic, but she was still in Ryder’s coach.
The sun hung low in the sky. The bustle betrayed only that the horses were being changed yet again, or perhaps that they had stopped for a meal. For most of the long journey she had barely surfaced from her troubled dreams.
She had no idea where York and John Coachman were taking her, but they had not gone southwest toward Liverpool. Instead they had passed north through Carlisle and over the Esk River. They must be well into Scotland by now. Perhaps Ryder planned to send her all the way to Leith, before she found passage out of Britain?
York flung open the door. “We’ve arrived, ma’am. This is Mossholm, near Annan.”
Miracle brushed both hands over her hair. “Annan? Then we’re traveling west along the Solway Firth, not north any longer?”
“Yes, ma’am. Lord Ayre is far from home, but Lord Ryderbourne sent word ahead. We’re to stop here for the night.”
Miracle climbed down from the carriage. She stood in a courtyard, flanked by stables and outbuildings, but dominated by a towering castle. Light from the setting sun sparkled in a multitude of tiny leaded windows and reflected from dozens of conical turrets. Mossholm seemed encrusted with rubies, as if it had stolen the light from Antares.
Struck by the strange fancy of it, she laughed. “So Lord Ayre lives in a castle from a fairy tale? Is he another enchanter?”
York gave her a puzzled glance. “I believe His Lordship is mortal enough, ma’am. Lord Ayre is an old friend of Lord Ryderbourne’s. You’ll be safe here.”
She was welcomed inside by the housekeeper, who bobbed a respectful curtsy as if the guest really were a lady. After an excellent meal in the wood-paneled dining room, Miracle was shown up to a guest chamber. The house seemed warm and well loved, but she asked no searching questions about her absent host, who had allowed Ryder the use of his home at a moment’s notice. Though it was, of course, only another example of the extraordinary reach of a duke’s eldest son.
Would nobody, ever, deny a St. George anything?
Fear intruded, like a flickering shadow. Perhaps he was not coming, after all. She would not blame him if he had simply gone back to London. No lover had ever stayed before. Why should Lord Ryderbourne—who could have any woman he wanted—be any different?
A summer squall blew in that night to whip about the turrets and moan down the stairs. Miracle lay awake for a long time, wryly aware that she had slept away half the previous day. She felt oddly suspended. It had been such a strange journey from the apprentice house to this Scottish castle. Did she regret any of it?
Only Hanley.
As for her Sir Galahad, it might almost be worth facing the gallows to have had these last weeks in his company. Miracle turned over and buried her face in the pillow. Drifting on the edge of sleep she almost thought she could feel him, warm and strong, in the bed next to her. Her lips shaped his kisses. Her mouth sighed with longing. Her heart knew deep, lovely tremors as her body remembered his. Perhaps Mossholm really was enchanted, after all?
A shutter banged. Startled fully awake, she stared at the dark windows, while yearning surged, hot and sweet, for a lover she might never see again.
When she next opened her eyes, it was to sunshine and a blue sky morning. After breakfast she climbed up into one of the turrets, where she could look out over Scotland. Water glimmered. The road east, back along the Solway Firth, twisted away toward England like a discarded piece of trimming.
Something was moving.
She watched the black speck as it came closer. A carriage rolled west toward Mossholm: a curricle drawn by two horses. Still several miles away as yet, a lone horseman thundered after it.
A quick stab of fear made her heart freeze for a moment. Miracle leaned both hands on the sill, watching the carriage and the horseman, as if they were portents of death.
As the curricle reached the last stretch, where Mossholm’s drive-way split from the main road, the rider drew level and leaned down to speak to the driver of the curricle. His saddle horse spun about, its mane and tail streaming in the wind like spume off a wave.
The horseman lifted his hat and turned to ride on. His dark hair whipped in the breeze.
Ryder!
Miracle sped down the stairs. She stopped herself at the last minute, before she raced out into the courtyard like a child. But when the footman opened the door and Ryder strode into the hall, she was standing at the foot of the main stairs, waiting for him,
with her pulse pounding its aching desire in her veins.
“I wasn’t sure you would really come, after all,” she said with a wry smile. “However, I’m now as rested and refreshed as poppies after rain, and ready to travel on to Leith.”
Ryder halted in his tracks. His eyes were very dark, as if the gale still tossed there. “You doubted that I would come?” He tossed his hat to a footman. “But I gave you my word!”
Suddenly afraid, she wrapped her fingers around the newel post for support. “Did Lord Ayre arrive with you?”
“Ayre? No. He’ll get here later.”
She felt awkward, as if the mill child had taken hold of her tongue. “I was watching from one of the turrets. You stopped to speak with someone in a curricle.”
“George Melman. I asked him to come. He’s driven half the night to get here.”
“Why?” she asked. “He’s found Lord Hanley’s missing papers?”
Ryder walked up to her. The storm clouds still threatened thunder, but he bent his head to kiss her lightly on the mouth. She controlled her surge of longing and returned his kiss just as lightly, as if they were simply friends.
“No. Nothing like that,” he said. “He’s going to marry us.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“DON’T JOKE ABOUT SUCH THINGS,” SHE SAID. “WHY DID MR. Melman really come?”
Ryder choked down the torrent of desire that flooded his bones. He burned to explore her mouth, deeply, thoroughly, but he took her by the elbow, instead, and ushered her into a withdrawing room.
Miracle stood beside the cold fireplace as Ryder strode away across the oak floor. Whatever the confused passion of his feelings, he would not use touch to persuade her.
“Sit down, please, Miracle. I’m not joking.”
Ranked around the walls, a row of stags’ heads, remote and majestic, gazed down from black glass eyes. Chairs and a chaise longue were arranged around a fine Turkish rug in front of the grate. At the far end of the room, a pianoforte stood near a deeply recessed window. Apart from the piano, Ayre had touched nothing at Mossholm since he had inherited it.