Sheets rustled. Silk whispered against silk, and Liz froze like a fox cornered by hounds. Montague’s breathing evened out in the pattern of slumber, and her shoulders relaxed. His chambers were crowded with shadows, barely lit by the candle in her hand and the dawn breaking through the window.
She had searched his dressing room for the coat he’d worn yesterday before venturing into his sleeping chamber. She peered at the huge bed that dominated the room. A brawny four-poster canopied in thick burgundy damask. The curtains enclosing all sides blocked any view of the duke.
A pair of boots in front of a wing chair snagged her attention and she crept over, her toes sinking into the thick pile carpet. A pair of trousers were folded neatly on the seat. And tossed over the back of the chair was a coat. She brought the candle flame closer. A dark blue coat.
Her heart pounded. She prayed the letter was still in its pocket. Darting a glance back at the bed, she took a deep breath. A soft snore soothed her ears. Slithering her hand down between the chair and the inside of the coat, she felt for the inside pocket. Fingers brushing against paper, she smiled . . . until the coat slid off the chair and landed in a heap on the floor.
Her breath was trapped in her lungs, but the steady breathing behind the curtains didn’t waver. She tiptoed around the chair and drew back the left side of the coat, holding the lapel between two fingers. A square of paper edged above the pocket, appearing a faint bluish in the dim light against the darker silk. A sliver of a dark seal met her eyes, but she was unable to make out its color. It was darker than the usual red.
Easing the letter out, she replaced it with a small bundle of papers she had folded up to mimic a letter. If he pulled the papers out of the pocket he would know instantly they weren’t his letter, but it might buy her a smidgen of time. In the spy game, she worked for every advantage she could get. With one last glance over her shoulder, she arranged the coat over the chair back and crept into the antechamber.
Holding the candle high, she turned the letter in her hand to examine the seal, chest clenched tight in anticipation. A bird of prey held a hare in a sea of purple. Her head falling back on her shoulders, relief coursed through her body. Her sister was saved.
And Montague was betrayed. She bit her lip and pushed the thought from her mind. She couldn’t afford sentimentality.
She rushed across the room, eager now to leave the entire episode behind her. The sooner gone, the sooner she would forget the duke. At the hidden door behind a full-length painting of the first Duke of Montague, Liz shoved the missive down her bodice. Stepping into the yawning entry, she pulled the door shut behind her. She hurried down the corridor, wondering where she could go to be unseen. She was supposed to deliver the letter to Mr. Pike. And she would. After she read it.
Her room was out of the question. Molly was inquisitive and this letter was distinctive. She could go to one of the many unused rooms of Hartsworth House, but the servants would be beginning their day soon. Explaining herself in a hallway she shouldn’t be in would only complicate matters.
She tripped down multiple staircases, her feet seeming to know which direction to take even without her mind directing them. Right now she needed out of Hartsworth, away from prying eyes. Her chest squeezed tight, her lungs desperately trying to suck in air. The estate closed in on her like a prison, the weight of her duty dragging at her like chains.
She pushed out into the stone hall of the lower floor and made for the door in the storeroom. Freedom was only steps away.
“Morning, dearie!” a cheerful voice called out. “Aren’t you up early?”
Liz snapped her head to the left. Peggy stood in the connecting kitchen, making quick work slicing up a rasher of bacon, her hands covered in a sheen of grease.
“Uh, good morning, Peggy.” She cast her eyes to the open door. The rectangle of gray sky and green lawn beckoned. “You’re an early riser, too.”
Peggy picked up another cut of meat. “I’m the cook. We’re the first to start working.”
Liz took a step towards her. The letter scraped against the delicate skin over her breast, making her flesh prickle where it touched. There was no way for the cook to hear the slight rustle of papers, but her heart thumped painfully just the same. “I thought I would go for a walk before I begin my day.”
Peggy paused, the knife in her hand sliced halfway into the pork.
Liz shifted on her feet. “I find the fresh air gives me energy.”
Peggy eyed her dubiously. “If you say so. Personally, I’ve never understood why some people choose to walk for enjoyment when it’s much nicer to sit down, get off your feet.” She laid the cut meat on a large griddle on the stove. Shaking the brazier so the charcoals rattled, she slid it underneath the grill. “But whatever works best for you.” She dried her hands on her apron. “I have noticed your color being much better these last few days. And your appetite is back.”
Liz stepped back, closer to the exit. The letter shifted beneath her stays, and her hand automatically flew towards it, pressing it flat against her breasts. Could Peggy see its outline beneath her gown? The rectangular wedge seemed so apparent to Liz, so damning. She forced her lips to stretch across her face. “I have been feeling better.” She took another step back. “I’ll be back shortly for breakfast, I’m sure.”
Peggy nodded, turning back to the sizzling meat. “Be sure to take a coat with you. It’s cold out and feels like rain.”
“I won’t be out long,” Liz said as she flew out the door, putting a wall between herself and the cook. She circled around the back of the long east wing of the house and headed off on a gravel path into a little wooded garden.
She had come across this trail on one of her excursions to mentally map the estate, and had immediately fallen in love with it. Instead of the manicured hedgerows of the east garden or the organized beds to the west of the building, each plant and flower laid out with military precision, this walk was softer, less controlled than the other gardens. Bushes crept outside their lines, an abundance of blooms spilling over into the narrow pathways. Large willow trees trailed flowering boughs so low at places one had to forge a path through the drooping branches. It was like entering another world, separate from the estate, no formalities, no pretense, only lush wildness.
She found her spot beside a small brook and sat on the cold slab of granite that made up a bench, a low wall of stone at her back. She shivered. Peggy was right. She should have brought a covering. The burble of water slipping over rock calmed her nerves as she drew the letter from her gown.
Why she’d decided to read the missive before giving it to Mr. Pike she wasn’t quite sure. She just knew that she needed to. There would be no excuses of ignorance for her action. If she read the contents she would have to own up to her full betrayal of Montague.
Sliding a nail under the broken seal, she opened the letter. It consisted of three pieces of folded paper, written by a cramped feminine hand. Liz squinted, trying to decipher the words. Morning was unfolding, but with a heavy cloud cover overhead the light was still poor enough to make reading difficult.
And then she wished she hadn’t been able to piece the words together.
What they said was too horrifying.
Because it wasn’t a shipment that Lord Westmore wanted to steal. It was secrets. And if she delivered this information to the earl she was guilty of treason.
She carefully refolded the letter. Swallowing back bile, Liz considered her options. Follow the plan and free her sister. If Westmore adhered to his promise.
If she did that she might be substituting one sister’s death in prison for another’s. Treason was a capital offense. And rightfully so. The information in her hands could get loyal subjects of the Crown killed. If she gave this to Westmore she would deserve death.
But it would save her sister. And if Westmore ever discovered she had found the letter but hadn’t delivered it to him both her and Amanda’s lives would be forfeit. One word from the earl to his judge and Amanda would be sentenced to hang. One note to Pike or a man like him and Liz would find herself as missing as Bob.
Liz fell to her knees and scrambled to the creek, barely making it before her stomach betrayed her. She hung her head over the shifting water, fingers digging into the soft loam, waiting for her insides to stop heaving. After splashing some cold water on her face, she crawled back to the stone wall.
The letter on the bench mocked her. Without a thought beyond the next five minutes, she tore a square from her thin petticoat and carefully wrapped it around the letter. Next, she dug moss out of a crevasse between two stones and hid the pages within, tamping the loose vegetation back into the crack as protection.
She couldn’t think what to do. Betray her sister or betray her country . . . and Montague. She gave a fleeting thought of asking Montague for help. He was a duke; he must have connections. But would he use them when he learned of her deception? Or would he have her tossed in Newgate next to her sister? Besides, the duke was an honorable man. He wouldn’t have a judge under his thumb. Even if Montague was willing to help, by the time he went through the proper channels her sister could be dead.
She wanted to scream, howl at the sky, but instead rose on shaky feet and backtracked towards Hartsworth. A distant rumble of thunder greeted her when she emerged from the garden.
The massive stone building towered in front of her. She didn’t know what she would do, but she couldn’t return to Montague’s home yet. She needed time to think of a solution. Think of something, anything.
She pointed her feet left, towards the open expanse of fields. Just another five minutes of walking and the answer would come to her. It had to.
* * *
Marcus held tight to Arabelle’s elbow with one hand and an umbrella with the other. He had never been so happy to hand a woman into a carriage as he was now. Not that his thoughts towards the woman hadn’t mellowed, but playing host to an overly energetic chit while he had a business and estates to manage, a spy to uncover, and a maid to avoid was one task too many.
“Monty, I’ll expect to see you when I’m in London. I’ll need you to help me make my suitors jealous. It’s the least you can do for me since I’m no longer to be your duchess.” She lifted her skirts and hopped over a puddle.
“The least I could do would be to do nothing.” He nodded at the footman to open the carriage door. “However, as we are old friends, I will assist you in deviling the bucks of London. When I have the time,” he hastily amended.
She paused on the first step. “It’s not deviling when I seek a betrothal. But that does give me some ideas for some sport we could have.”
With more force than proper, he pushed her onto her seat. “Our ideas of sport do not match. I will have to decline that invitation.”
She pouted, and leaned back in her seat with a smile. “I think you’re right. We would not have suited after all. My duke will not be so stuffy.”
The rest of her party climbed in after her and settled onto the velvet benches. “Your duke?” her brother asked. “Do you already have your eye on the next poor fool?”
“Have safe travels,” Marcus said, closing the door as she kicked one of her slippered feet in the direction of her brother’s shins. He pounded the side of the carriage and stepped back as it drove away. He rolled his shoulders. One burden lifted.
Spinning on his heel, he headed for the front steps. A page racing around the side of the building towards the stable caught his attention. The lad met with another boy, standing together in the pouring rain, before turning around and running back to the house as though the hounds of hell were on his heels.
Curious, Marcus strode along the front of Hartsworth and turned the corner, moving towards the open door to the kitchens. His steward and cook stood inside, heads together, listening to the page. Mrs. Johnson held a small kitten to her thick middle, her fingers tangling in the small animal’s fur.
Marcus stepped into the entry, causing the trio to take hasty steps back. He closed the umbrella and shook it out. “Mr. Todd, is there a problem?”
The man tugged at his lapels. “‘Problem’ might not be the right word, Your Grace. One of our maids hasn’t reported for duty, and no one can find her. But I’ve sent men to look for her. Nothing to concern Your Grace with.”
A flicker of unease unrolled in his gut. “A maid?”
“Just like poor Bob Blackmun, it is.” The cook shook her head, red hair escaping from her white cap. She lowered her face to the kitten, rubbed her cheek against its fur. “I should never of let her walk out the door this morning. I knew something was wrong.”
“Which maid?” Marcus let his voice fall to an intimidating growl, not having the inclination to remain polite. It was probably nothing. He had many maids, and from the sound of it the girl was only gone for a couple of hours.
The vise around his heart warned him otherwise.
Mr. Todd blinked. “That Miss Smith, Your Grace. One problem after another we have with that one.”
Mrs. Johnson elbowed him in the side. “She’s a sweet girl, if you—”
“What have you done to find her?” Marcus interrupted.
“I sent two stable boys, Jack and Sam, out looking for her. Jack went to the village and Sam headed south along the road.” Mr. Todd shook his head. “Foolish girl, out in this rain.”
“And Mr. Pike volunteered to go after her.” Mrs. Johnson lowered her chin to her chest. “He is a distant relation, after all.”
His steward leaned into the cook, scratched the kitten’s jaw with one finger. He nodded stiffly, but didn’t add to her statement. Marcus knew Mr. Todd had issues with the assistant groom, and it struck him as odd that a man of Pike’s disposition would volunteer to help anyone, even a second cousin. Marcus rubbed at his tight chest. Something didn’t add up. Liz was in trouble. He felt it in his bones.
He turned to the boy, who had stood silently, twisting his small cap round in his hands. “Run to the stable and have Darkwing saddled. I’ll be there shortly.”
“You are going out after her?” Mr. Todd couldn’t keep the incredulity from his voice. Realizing his blunder, he coughed and bowed his head. “I’ll retrieve your greatcoat and be back momentarily, Your Grace.” He padded out of the kitchen leaving Marcus and the cook alone.
“She is a sweet girl, Your Grace.” Mrs. Johnson freed her shawl from the kitten’s claws. “I’m sure she didn’t mean to cause a fuss. If it wasn’t raining so hard I wouldn’t have told Molly to bring it to Mr. Todd’s attention.”
“Molly beds with Miss Smith?” he asked, his fingers scratching at the fold of papers in his breast pocket. He glanced at the stairwell. Did he have time to put the letter in his safe? A wet ride might damage its contents.
The cook nodded her head, her soft chin jiggling. “I know Mr. Todd isn’t happy with Liz’s work, even though she gets all of it done. It might take her a bit longer than others. And I didn’t want her to lose her position over this. But”—she bit her lip and nodded to the open door—“it’s so wet. And with poor Bob disappearing as he did . . .”
Did his servants think him and Mr. Todd monsters? “I’m not thinking about dismissing the woman right now, Mrs. Johnson. Her safety is of utmost concern.” He, too, looked out into the pouring rain and thought about his little bird alone in the elements. Liz was strong willed, but her body had proven itself all too fragile.
His breath caught in his throat, and he cleared it with a growl. His steward scuttled back into the kitchen holding the long coat out before him. Marcus ripped it from Mr. Todd’s hands, thrust his arms into the sleeves. He wouldn’t waste time running up to his safe. The letter would be covered under two layers. It would be fine.
Without a backwards glance, Marcus jogged for the stable, ignoring Mr. Todd’s entreaty to bring his umbrella. Riding across his lands holding a bloody parasol would make him look even more like the right idiot he was for personally involving himself in the search for his maid. His jaw clenched, and he hurtled himself onto Darkwing’s back, the horse shifting uneasily in the groom’s grasp. Marcus grabbed the reins and galloped out of the stable, into the storm.
Anger. Anger was a much more appropriate emotion to feel at this moment than fear, so Marcus held on to it as best he could. He crested one hill and flew down into the hollow, his eyes scanning the horizons for any movement. If one man had gone south and the other to the village Marcus would search his own lands. He didn’t know where Pike was looking, but didn’t like the idea of that man finding his Liz.
And that thought infuriated him more than any other. She shouldn’t be his Liz, and he shouldn’t care if his groom’s filthy hands touched her, so long as she was safe.
He kicked his heels into Darkwing’s heaving flanks. She would be safest with Marcus. He would find her, bring her back to Hartsworth, and shake some sense into the silly girl. The only danger she was in was from his wrath. His pulse pounded in his ears. She would be fine. She had to be.
Please, God, let her be safe.
He and Darkwing traversed acres and acres of land and for the first time ever Marcus cursed the size of his holdings. It was too easy for a person to get lost. Why had he never thought of that before now?
The crash of waves thundered over the storm as Marcus drove Darkwing towards the cliffs overlooking the sea. She wouldn’t be stupid enough to walk along the cliffs in the rain. The loose soil crumbled when wet, sliding forty feet down onto the rocky beach. If she slipped . . . The pain in his chest spread to his gut. No, she would be fine. He’d make sure of that.
He pulled back on the reins on the next ridge, both he and his mount sucking in lungfuls of air. Sweeping back the wet hair that fell in his eyes, he kicked his heels into Darkwing’s sides. And immediately yanked on the reins.
The horse snorted in disgust and swung his head. Marcus ignored his friend’s temper. The large oak down to his left, about ten feet from the precipice. That lump in front of it was a rock, wasn’t it?
“Sweet Jesus,” he whispered, and sent Darkwing flying down towards it. Towards her. Because now he could see clearly it wasn’t a rock, but a heap of black skirts around a still body.
Before his horse had even come to a full stop, Marcus was on the ground, kneeling beside Liz. He rolled her from her side to her back, and cursed when the cold skin of her cheek met his questing fingers. “Elizabeth? Liz, answer me, damn it.”
She opened her eyes, and his gut unclenched. A crease appeared on her brow. “I fell.”
That was it? All the explanation she would give him? He pressed his lips together and shrugged out of his greatcoat. “Do you hurt anywhere?” Running his hands down her body, he didn’t feel any broken bones, didn’t see any blood.
“Just cold,” she whispered, and shut her eyes.
Lifting her upper body from the wet ground, he wrapped her in the thick wool. “Keep your eyes open,” he demanded. He stood with her in his arms and turned for Darkwing. The horse, bless his soul, hadn’t moved from where Marcus had dismounted, and stood patiently waiting for his master’s return.
If only humans were so cooperative. He hefted Liz to the front of the saddle, climbed up behind her, pulled her close to his chest. Shudders wracked her small body. Her eyes were open, mere slits, but at least she was conscious. Tucking his greatcoat as tightly around her body as possible, Marcus pointed his mount towards home and took off at a gallop.
Darkwing’s hooves ate up the distance, the horse’s gait sure on the muddy ground. The tremors of his slight burden increased, grew racking, and Marcus dug his heels even harden into the horse’s sides. His eyes became blinded by the horizontal rain and the air whipping past. He gave himself over to Darkwing’s care, knowing his horse would get them safely home. What he would do once they reached Hartsworth he had no idea. What he would do with his little bird past getting her warm, and dry, and safe he couldn’t fathom.
But something had changed. When he’d spied her limp form huddled on the wet ground, something had changed within himself. She was no longer just one of his servants, could never hold that place again. Perhaps she hadn’t been that for a while and the shock of seeing her thus finally made him admit that to himself.
His fingers were as cold and hard as ice, his grip frozen on the reins in one hand and on Liz’s waist in his other. Her lids had fallen shut, and Marcus did his best to shake her. Although if the rattle of their race across his fields didn’t rouse her his attempts would do no better. “Liz!” His shout was torn from his mouth and carried away on the wind. “Wake up,” he demanded hoarsely. Her only response was to sag more completely into his hold.
His chest squeezed when the stone edifice of his home crested into view. He guided his horse around the east wing, heading for the nearest entry where he knew servants would be waiting, ready for his commands. Darkwing sent a spray of mud slopping against the stone wall as he skidded to a stop in front of the kitchen door. Mrs. Johnson and two of her helpers looked up, mouths in identical o’s of surprise when he stormed into the warm room, Liz a shivering mass in his arms.
“Mrs. Johnson, get Mr. Todd. I want a hot bath drawn in my chambers immediately. And have him send someone for the doctor. I want him on hand in case we need him.” He shifted Liz in his arms, the strain of the past hour catching up with his muscles.
“Your chambers . . .” The cook’s gaze darted from his face to the sodden bundle in his arms and back again. Her mouth snapped shut and she nodded her head. “Right away.” She turned for the stairs, Marcus following close behind, and yelled back into the kitchen, “Girls, get the water going!”
With an efficiency that no longer surprised the duke, but still managed to impress, every door was thrown open as he reached it, the whole house made aware of his destination and urgency. Before he’d even laid Liz down on the settee in his bedroom’s antechamber, a row of men carrying buckets of steaming water and a copper tub began preparing a bath.
He glanced down. Liz was awake and looking around the room, forehead wrinkled in confusion.
“What am I doing here?”
At least, that’s what Marcus thought she asked. Between the noise the bustle of servants made and the chattering of her teeth, it was hard to tell. “We’re getting you warm. Don’t move,” he told her, and joined Mr. Todd at the entrance to his rooms.
“Your Grace, the doctor has been sent for. What else can I do?” The steward cast a concerned look at Liz, who had pushed herself to her elbows on the brocade sofa.
“Thank you.” Fires popped up in the hearths in each of his rooms. The stream of servants began to dwindle, their tasks complete. Marcus gripped the door and watched the last footman leave. “Settle the doctor in one of the parlors when he arrives and give him whatever he wants. I’ll let you know if he needs to be sent up.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” He bent at the waist and was gone, with nary a murmur or questioning look in his eye over the impropriety of the situation. Marcus took a moment to appreciate the privilege a dukedom gave him, for this was surely as improper a situation as could occur. The master of the house was alone with a young female servant, and everyone knew his purpose in being so.
He curled his fingers. Time to get to that purpose. He stalked towards her until she had to crane her neck to look at him. A shudder sent his greatcoat sliding off one damp shoulder. He tore the rest of the garment from her and reached for her apron, stained brown with dirt. “All right. Clothes come off now.”
“Wait . . . what?”
He tossed the apron next to his coat and started working at the buttons at her throat.
She flicked her eyes from the tub to his face to his hands working her dress off. Her forehead smoothed. “Wait, I can”—she cleared the hoarseness from her throat—“I can do this.” Her cold fingers pushed uselessly at him, unable to even grip his hands.
“Of course you can.” Tired of the endless buttons, he gripped each edge of the sagging dress and tore it open across her middle, baring her sodden underclothes.
She gasped and tried to stand. Marcus didn’t even have to push her down to keep her where she was. Her body was too cold to respond to her cues.
“You couldn’t even hold my hand right now, much less remove your clothes and boots.” He swatted her fingers away. “Now hush up and stop getting in my way. If you persist I will get four of my men up here to hold you down while I cut the clothing from your body. The choice is yours.”
Unlike her muscles, her voice suffered no damage from the cold. “You overbearing brute.” She tried to grab his hands again. “Just because you’re a duke doesn’t mean that you can—” A shudder washed over her, and she tried to burrow back under her wet clothes.
A loud rent snapped her eyes open, and Marcus ripped her shift and petticoats down her legs. She was bare except for her drawers, socks, and boots, her skin waxy and ashen.
He knelt and yanked off one boot and sock. “Can’t do what? Disrobe you?” He removed her other boot. “Apparently I can.” Her damp drawers fought his efforts to pull them down over her hips, but soon joined their brethren on the ground.
Standing, he kicked the linens away and reached for her hands. “Into the tub with you,” he said, pulling her upright. Her knees sagged and she collapsed against his chest. Placing his arm behind her knees, he lifted her, turning for the steaming water.
She pushed at his shoulder. “I am perfectly cap-p-p-able of b-b-bathing myself.”
He ground his teeth. “We are going to have a conversation about what you think you are capable of, and soon.” Lowering her into the hot water, he ignored her whimper and mad scramble to climb out of the tub. “After you thaw.” He held her down until she settled into the heat. Once her body relaxed he released her, drawing his arms back slowly to make sure she didn’t sink under the water.
She glared at him, but didn’t move from her position clinging to the side of the tub.
Marcus took a deep breath. Then another. His lungs expanded fully for the first time since he set out after his wayward maid. She was safe. In his room. In his care. He watched, arms crossed over his chest, as her shivers began to subside and the skin that he could see started to pinken. She would be all right. This time.
He frowned.
Liz was sensible. Even tempered. But she had a curious streak, hidden passions, which must have overridden her common sense and led her out walking in inclement weather. She had a foolish or reckless side that could obviously harm her. And that was something, Marcus was beginning to realize, he would not permit.
He rocked onto the balls of his feet, feeling centered. Ever since James’s death, he took his duty to those around him as seriously as a case of smallpox. He was the eighth Duke of Montague, and he was responsible for the health and welfare of all those around him. Yes, he took his duty seriously, but until now he took no joy in it. No pride.
As he looked at the raven-haired beauty in front of him, who even now was running her fingers through her wet locks trying to restore some semblance of order, chin lifted, all the while eyeing him as if he had decided to run naked through Prinny’s annual ball, something inside him shifted.
She was his to take care of, his to protect. And he looked forward to every minute.
Her fingers paused at a tangle in her hair. “What are you doing?”
Marcus tossed his coat next to the wet spot on the settee her body had left, began to unknot his cravat. “Taking off my wet clothes. I don’t relish catching a chill, either.”
Her fingers curled around the rim of the tub. “Uh, if you’ll hand me a bath sheet I’ll leave you to it.”
“You’ll stay where you are until you are fully warmed.” He dragged his damp shirt over his head and sat on a chair to work off his boots.
“I have fully warmed.” Her gaze fixed on his hands as he tugged the leather Hessians from his feet. “I feel quite warm now.”
Marcus sank back in the chair, enjoying the feeling of the flames from the nearby fire on his bare chest and cold feet. “Let me rephrase. You will stay where you are until I deem you warm enough to get out.”
The sparks from her eyes warmed him more than the fire. Anger meant she couldn’t be feeling too ill.
Marcus let his muscles release their tension. “And I’ll sit here and enjoy the view.”