Terror shaking her hand, it took will she didn’t know she possessed to lift her arm. Her palm flat, it hovered a hair away from the stone as disbelief kept her hand from touching it—from altering the reality she had been so firmly in.
A quick thrust, and her palm hit the dank stone. Cold. Hard. Real.
Her other hand came up, and she ran along the wall, hands dragging on the rough stone until she rounded the corner tower. She looked down the next outside wall.
Still real. Real and there was no telling herself it wasn’t.
Breath shallow, she pushed from the stone, spinning again, looking out at the vista around her.
The castle stood on a high hill, and from this spot, she could see land. Just unending stretches of rolling land. Forests. No mountains. The furthest thing from mountains.
She noticed Rowen making his way up the hill, approaching her, his horse still following him. He strolled, not hurried, a cautiously curious look on his face.
“No.” She whispered it before he was even near enough to hear. “No. No. No.” She repeated herself over and over, her voice only getting louder, head swinging back and forth.
It was when Rowen had almost reached her that she bolted. Bolted as fast as she could back to the trees. Back to the forest. Back to the mountain.
She had to get back to the mountain.
“Wynne—” His shout was low as she blasted past him, her already angry lungs screaming as her speeding legs pushed her muscles past pain and into agony. She wasn’t about to stop.
She had to get back to the mountain.
She made it down the length of the brown grass, her feet slipping, her bag slapping wildly on her backside, but she kept her balance.
Five steps into the trees, an arm clamped around her waist, yanking her off the ground, her legs flying forward.
Earth no longer below her boots, she tried to spin in Rowen’s hold, shoving at his arm wrapped around her.
She hadn’t even heard him behind her.
“No, Rowe. I have to get back. Back to the mountain. Let me go,” she screeched.
“There is no mountain, Wynne. None. You are not in America. You are in England.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No. Put me down. My mountain. Shiote. It was right there. It was right there. Just let me go. I can get back to it.”
“Will you swim? Because that mountain is an ocean away from here, Wynne.”
She stilled, craning her neck up to him. “Put me down.”
“Are you going to run again?”
“Put me down.” She repeated herself, each word punctuated with calm.
Gently, the clamp around her waist loosened. Her toes touched the ground.
Dazed, the weight of her own body heavy, Wynne walked stiffly away from Rowen toward the castle.
Halfway up the hill, the heft of her feet became too much to bear and she crumpled, sinking to the ground.
She sat, her feet folded under her, numbly staring at the top of the corner tower closest to her, the grey clouds swirling above it.
She remembered.
Remembered her grandfather dying. Remembered his weathered hand slipping from her cheek. Remembered standing at the mound of dirt claiming him back to the land. Remembered walking up the plank onto the ship. Remembered days of sickness, wishing for death on the water.
“You are in England, Wynne.” Rowen’s voice, soft, reached her ears from behind. She hadn’t heard him approach this time either.
She could not turn her head to him. Could not move. “I know. I remember.”
He knelt next to her, his knee resting on a scrub of brown grass. “Where did you come from, Wynne? There are no towns even remotely near the trail where I found you. How did you get there?”
It took a long moment for Rowen’s question to sink into her muddled mind. How had she gotten there? She hadn’t the slightest inkling.
Her head swayed back and forth. “I do not know.”
“But you do remember traveling across the ocean—traveling to England?”
“I do. My grandfather died. And we boarded the ship.”
“I am sorry for your loss. He sounded like a fine man.”
She could only nod at his words, her throat constricted.
“Do you remember arriving in England?” Rowen asked.
Wynne swallowed a deep breath, trying to shove her grandfather’s last hours out of her mind. “No. The last thing I can place in my mind is the ship. The horror of it.”
“Did something happen to you?”
“I was sick. Very sick. My mother was there—my mother—” Her suddenly frantic eyes went to Rowen. “Where is my mother?”
“She was with you on the voyage?”
“Yes. She was the one that wanted to travel here after grandfather died. Where is she?”
Rowen shook his head, his dark eyes somber, telling her he knew even less than she did.
She looked away from Rowen, her eyes running across the castle in front of her. “Where am I?”
“That, I do have an answer for. Are you ready to hear it?”
Wynne closed her eyes. It took seconds for her to afford the slightest nod.
But Rowen said nothing.
She cracked her eyelids to look at him.
“You are in Yorkshire, on the estate of the Duke of Letson.” He pointed up the hill. “And that behemoth is Notlund Castle.”
{ Chapter 3 • Worth of a Duke }
Rowen paused by the castle wall, pretending to look out at the grounds, but kept Wynne in his vision.
She had asked to be alone for a few minutes, and Rowen obliged, fetching his horse from nibbling on a few sprigs of hardy green weeds at the base of the castle.
Right hand clasping the reins of his black stallion, Rowen scratched at the outer stone of the castle with his forefinger. The stone crumbled to sand at his scraping, letting loose the disintegrating layer of the wall. His mouth settled into a frown. The decay was worse than he remembered.
He glanced fully at Wynne. She looked miniscule sitting in middle of the wide-open hill. Taller than average, she was nonetheless slight, and she looked as though she could blow away like a fallen leaf. She hadn’t so much as twitched in the minutes since he left her, but he wasn’t so sure she wouldn’t run again.
He had to keep a wary eye out for that. He could just let her go, let her disappear into the woods—but he already knew he was not about to let her leave this place. Not alone. Not without a destination.
For all that Rowen lacked faith in, there was one thing he did trust—fate. Every time in his life he had listened to fate—done what fate asked of him—he had been richly rewarded. Every time he had fought fate, ignored it, he had been punished.
He already knew that fate had put this woman in his path. That she had appeared on that usually deserted trail, getting robbed at the same time he crossed her path, was too much obvious fate to ignore.
He understood perfectly the message fate was giving him.
And that fate was laughing at Rowen’s vow to avoid women.
But what was he supposed to do with her now?
Rowen had been relieved when she had asked to be alone—it was incredibly awkward being near her—he had no idea what to do with her obvious pain. Comfort her? He had not an inkling on how to do that.
The wind whipped up, barreling along the open ground, and it caught loose blond tendrils around her face, whisking them into her eyes. The movement seemed to awaken her from the stupor she was in, and her toes flipped under her as she rocked her body onto her heels.
She was standing by the time Rowen reached her, adjusting her cloak and settling the sling of her bag over her shoulder.
Eyes pensive to him, she waited until he stopped walking before speaking.
“I would like to thank you again, Rowe, for not only assisting me with the thief, but for leading me here. You were correct in that I would not have believed you had you told me where I was while we we
re in the woods.” Her voice wooden, she tucked one of the rogue tendrils of hair behind her ear. “It was a kind thing for you to do. Especially after I interrupted your travels.”
Kind was not something that was usually attached to his name. Rowen cleared his throat. “It was not a bother.”
“I have nothing to pay you with for your troubles—I thought we were on mountain politeness, where sharing a meal would suffice as gratitude. I can offer you my brushes—”
“No, Wynne. Absolutely not. No payment is expected or accepted. And your brushes—how can you even think of offering those after you nearly died for them?”
She gave a sad half-smile. “I did not truly think you would take them. I know my knife is more valuable, but I need that more than I need my brushes.”
“Why?”
“I will be returning to the woods.”
Rowen’s mouth set into a hard line. “You will? Did you remember where your mother is?”
“No. Nothing since the ship. So I have to find her.”
“Where I found you, Wynne—there is nothing for many miles in every direction. This castle is the closest thing. There was no sign of anyone but you at your makeshift camp. You said yourself you had been in the woods for days. You were out there alone, Wynne.”
“You do not know that.” Her arms crossed over her chest.
“I do. What is your plan? It freezes nightly. There is no shelter. You have no food.”
Her eyes narrowed at him. “You do not think I can survive in the woods by myself?”
Rowen shrugged, not wanting to anger her more, but not willing to add fodder to her delusions of surviving in the forest.
She took a step toward him as her arms dropped rigidly straight at her sides, hands balled to fists. “My spine was forged on one of the wildest mountains in my land, Rowe. I think I can handle a simple English forest.”
“And then what?” he asked. “Do you plan to wander the woods for years? You may never find your mother. Do you plan on dying alone in the forest?”
She spun, her bag flying and hitting Rowen in the hip as she started away from him.
Before she stomped three steps, Rowen grabbed her wrist, jerking her to a stop. She tugged at his hand, attempting to free herself.
“Please. Just stop a moment,” Rowen said, voice calm. “Think, Wynne. Think. You are insisting on madness.”
She tried to twist her wrist free of his fingers. His iron clamp didn’t allow it. He hadn’t seen the slightest crack in her since she had stood, but suddenly, the tiniest tear in her facade. Her back to him, she looked up at the sky, shaking her head. From the angle, he could see her eyes start to water.
“I do not have a choice, Rowe. I have nothing. Nothing but what I wear. What I carry. No memories of this land. Nothing. So I need to go back to where I was and try to figure out what I am even doing here.”
“You are right, Wynne. You have nothing. Nothing.”
Her head swung to him, a tear slipping down her cheek as her eyes turned to fire. “Rude.”
“I do not mean it as it sounded.” He dropped her wrist, taking the chance that her anger at him was enough to keep her in place. He did not figure she was one to run from a fight.
“Then you meant it how?” The edge in her voice told him he was right.
“I only mean to express the fact that you are blank right now. And tracking down how you got here and where your mother is will be much easier once you remember some things. Trying to survive in the forest in the cold with little food is going to take all of your energy. Energy that would be better spent trying to remember how you got to the middle of the forest. So do that somewhere where there is a roof and food.”
“I have no money, Rowe. I could not afford a place to stay even if you brought me to a comfy tavern.”
“So stay here at Notlund.”
She looked over his shoulder up to the stone structure. “Here? I do not know the people that live here.”
“You do. You know one.”
Her eyebrows went impossibly high. “You? You live here?”
“Not so much live, as own.”
“Do not talk in riddles to me, Rowe, my mind cannot take it now.” She scratched her forehead. “You own this place but do not live here?”
“I do. And there is one other thing I need to tell you.”
“What?”
“I am the Duke of Letson.”
The words did not faze her. No sudden cowering. No sudden fawning. Entirely peculiar.
“But you said you were a horse breeder.”
“I am that as well.”
Her arms went wide, palms up to the sky. “So you are a duke, so what?”
“So I own that castle, and you may stay there.”
She looked from his face to the structure again. “It looks as cold as the forest.”
“It is.” Rowen’s cheek rose in a half-smile. “But there are fireplaces and tapestries that try very hard to squelch the drafts.”
Wynne shook her head, arms folding across her chest. “I cannot take your pity, Rowe.”
“I understand—I did not think you would take so easily to the idea.”
“You were right.”
“So I have a bargain for you.”
She took an instant step backward from him, startled, but then she stopped herself, foot in midair. Her heel went to the ground, purposeful, but her eyes wavered between trepidation and curiosity. “My grandfather always said to trust my gut, Rowe, and my gut is suddenly very much wary of you.”
He broke into a full smile at her words. “I do believe I would have liked your grandfather, Wynne. He did you well. But believe me, my bargain does not contain anything untoward.”
“What does it contain?”
“It contains you painting. I have something—someone for you to paint—you are skilled? You can do a portrait?”
“Art demands that skill is determined by the eye of the beholder.” Her words came out carefully. “And yes, I can do a portrait.”
“Excellent. So I suggest a trade. Lodging and food in exchange for a portrait. At the very least, it will afford you time to gain your bearings back about you.”
Her head cocked as she stared at him. He could see her wavering. “Would I be painting you?”
Rowen chuckled. “No. I will never have a portrait done. The portrait would be of the dowager duchess that lives here.”
“A duchess…you have a wife?”
“No. The dowager duchess is the widow of the last Duke of Letson.”
“So she is your mother?”
“No. My aunt.”
Wynne glanced over her shoulder at the trail into the forest, then her eyes swept to the castle and eventually landed on Rowen. “A trade—that is all?”
“That is all.”
“I would need paints. There is nothing growing in the forest right now to create my own.”
“Easily remedied.”
“And nothing indecent—I have your word?”
Rowen shook his head, smile still on his lips. “Nothing of the kind.”
It took her several more long seconds to decide. Seconds Rowen had a hard time believing she had the gall to take. He was offering her an incredibly generous way out of her current situation, and she should know that.
She gave him a curt nod. “Thank you. I will agree to your trade.”
She stepped past him, starting the walk up the hill.
Rowen whistled. “Come, Phalos.”
His horse trotted to his side. Rowen grabbed the reins.
Wynne looked over her shoulder at him, not stopping her stride. “Alexander’s Bucephalos?”
Startled, Rowen chuckled. “Yes.”
Her eyes swept over the horse. “He is a handsome stepper.”
Rowen started after her, smile on his lips. He watched the back of her head—tawny blonde hair pulled to the side into a thick braid, rogue tendrils still floating about with the wind.
He shook his head.
&n
bsp; He couldn’t remember the last time a true smile had graced his face.
~~~
Wynne’s initial wariness faded the second she plunked a toe into the warm water of the bath Rowen had ordered for her and then insisted she take.
He had said he did not want to present to the dowager a woodland nymph with squirrel guts under her nails. And truthfully, Wynne saw the validity in that statement.
After leading Wynne through an empty maze of cold stone hallways, Rowen had deposited her into a cavernous bedroom with a simple four-post bed. A tin tub sat beside the fireplace, and within a few minutes, the fire was lit and several maids, Julie and Esther, were hauling in steaming buckets of water. Wynne was just happy to see other people in the place, as she was beginning to question whether or not they were actually alone in the castle—she had neither seen nor heard anyone else on the way to the room.
Both of the girls were young and had giggled and looked at her with peculiarity when Wynne offered to help them with the buckets. But the memory was so distant in her mind of when she was young and her parents had maids in New York. She assumed she had made a guffaw with them, but couldn’t be sure.
Wynne sank deep into the tub, letting the water lap onto her chin, and took a deep breath, the steam sinking into her lungs and fighting the chill deep inside her. A chill she knew was days old in her body.
How on the Lord’s good earth had she gotten to the middle of the forest? And why? And where was her mother? And why did she have nothing except for her grandfather’s hunting knife and her brushes?
The questions swirled in her mind, repeating again and again, but answers never appeared in the brew. It wasn’t until goose bumps pricked the skin on her forearms that she realized the water had turned cold and she had been frozen in place.
She sighed. Still filthy, and now cold.
Ducking her head below the water, she scrubbed the bar of soap into her hair and quickly worked down her body. She did stop at her nails, giving them a longer scrub than usual. Rowen had been particularly kind in helping her, and if he thought the absence of squirrel guts from her fingers was appropriate when meeting a dowager duchess, she wasn't about to blatantly deny the obvious suggestion.
Lord of Fates: A Complete Historical Regency Romance Series (3-Book Box Set) Page 3