CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“The trouble with your fanciful stories, my dear, is they all end with a wedding. One might as well propose the day ends at noon. Night always comes eventually, you know.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to the Duchess of Blackmore in reply to her grace’s suggestion that Pride and Prejudice might one day be regarded as a classic tale.
The scream awakened her. Blood-chilling and high, it was followed by distant thuds. A crack. A crash. Broken wood and shattering glass.
Disoriented, Maureen froze, blinking in the darkness as her chest worked to breathe, shallow and quick. Heart racing, she reached for Henry. Nothing. Just bedsheets. Cold, empty.
She was cold, too. The fire had died down to coals hours earlier. But it was more than that. Panic had iced her through from the inside out. In the dark, Henry’s bedchamber was unfamiliar, filled with shadows and menace. And she was naked.
Gathering herself, she listened for more sounds. They had seemed to echo, she thought. Perhaps from the main floor. The entrance hall?
Slowly, she sat up, gathering the coverlet around her. The bedchamber door was closed, but the dressing room door stood ajar. She lowered her feet to cold wood planks, dragging the coverlet behind her like a cape as she tugged forward on shaking legs. Inside, every inch of her quivered. She did not know why except that being awakened from a dead sleep by disturbing noises on her wedding night was more than a bit unnerving. In all likelihood, a servant had simply taken a tumble on the way to the kitchens and was injured, perhaps in need of help.
The explanation did not slow her breathing or warm her skin or calm her racing heart. Moving carefully in the dark, she was glad for the sliver of moonlight that illuminated the dressing table. She’d left a lamp there earlier. Now, she patted the edge of the table, feeling her pin box and knocking her hairbrush several inches before she found it. She carried it to the fireplace, banging her shin painfully on the edge of the copper tub.
Cursing her love of bathing, she bent to rub the spot and lost her hold on the coverlet. It slid off her shoulders onto the floor. “Blast,” she hissed, retrieving the thing and huddling inside it once again. Feeling her way to the mantel, she found the container of spills and used one to light the lamp from the dying coals.
Just as golden light built a circle around her, she heard masculine shouting. Kimble, she thought. Where was Henry? Was he safe? Her heart twisted hard.
Oh, God. What if he was hurt? Based on the number of scars she had discovered on his naked body throughout the night, the man was a walking disaster—the slashes on his arm and thigh were just the beginning. He’d had a circular scar on his ribs about the size of a coin, a series of two-inch flat scars near his lower back, and a jagged slash on the underside of his left arm. Every one of them was a genuine oddity for someone whose physical prowess and athletic grace she’d long admired.
If he had injured himself again, she would kill him. She didn’t care how he came by those wounds. He belonged to her. She loved him, and he would bloody well take more care from now on.
Rushing toward the dressing room, she stumbled on his discarded clothes. She plucked up his shirt and waistcoat.
More shouts echoed from downstairs. The words were unclear, but the urgency was bright and obvious.
She threw off the coverlet, tossed aside his waistcoat, and pulled his shirt over her naked body. It gaped over her breasts but covered her knees. Swiftly now, her heart throbbing a repeated warning, she donned the dressing gown Regina had laid out for her earlier. She cinched the ties at her waist with a jerk and stuffed her feet into her yellow beaded slippers before taking up the lamp and running out of the bedchamber into the corridor.
As she drew closer to the stairs, she was better able to pinpoint the direction of the voices. They sounded not from the entrance hall, but further toward the rear of the house. The parlor, perhaps, or the morning room.
She reached the entrance hall, the golden light of her lamp dancing madly.
The morning room. Definitely the morning room.
Her slippered feet slid to a stop as she arrived at the open door. Then, her heart similarly skittered to a stop.
For there, shirtless and bleeding in moonlight made jagged by the broken window, stood Henry. Except that this was not her Henry. This was some other Henry, twirling twin daggers in his hands as though he planned to toss them in the air like an Astley’s performer standing atop a pair of galloping horses.
More shocking than the blood or the long, wicked blades was his face. It was the face of a man she simply had never seen. Grim. Cold. Teeth bared like a ferocious animal’s. Stance wide like a towering conqueror.
Her eyes drifted down to the figure he stood over, his knives dripping dark fluid on the floor. It was a man. White-faced. Eyes open. Blank.
Dead, Maureen. He is dead.
She could not look away.
There was a man. He was dead. Henry wielded knives like an extension of his arms. Dripping. Dripping. Dripping.
Sound receded until she only heard the whoosh of her own blood. Distantly, she recognized movement in the corner of the room. Kimble, crouched next to something near the sideboard. Another figure. Large. With callused, bony hands lying curled and empty and still in a shaft of moonlight.
Hands whose gray sleeve she recognized. Hands she knew could stitch a spangle onto a slipper as easily as they could wield a water pitcher or build a fire or carry Maureen’s specially made Chelsea buns without crushing them.
The lamp thudded to the ground. Maureen followed, all the strength leaving her legs.
Vaguely, she heard her own voice, a formless cry covered by her fingers. Broken in the middle.
Regina. It was Regina. How could it be Regina?
No. No, no, no, no, no. This was some horrible nightmare. She would wake any moment now. She would feel her Henry’s arms wrap around her. The other Henry would disappear and Regina would be …
Alive. Not dead. Not lying so dreadfully still.
“…reen.”
Wake up, she begged. Wake up, wake up, wake up.
“Maureen!” The shout was harsh. Sharp. It was not-Henry. His knives were gone. No, not gone. Lying on the table. “On your feet. Now.”
She swallowed and blinked away the moisture that made moonlight swim and dance around him. He was nodding to someone behind her.
A moment later, strong hands grasped her arms and lifted her to her feet, moving her from the doorway where she had collapsed. Two footmen filed into the small room, edging around the table to where Kimble crouched over …
She looked away from the curled hand.
A shoulder bumped hers as Stroud, too, entered the room. He handed first a damp cloth then a fresh shirt to not-Henry, who swiped at the splattered blood on his bare chest and shoulders before donning the shirt in one swift motion.
“… return to our bedchamber, Maureen.”
She shook her head.
“Do as I say,” he snapped. “There is nothing for you here. Go back to the bedchamber and wait for me.”
“R-Regina.” She began to crumple, her voice collapsing, her eyes filling.
Not-Henry came toward her, gripped her arm firmly, and led her out of the room. He bent and retrieved the lamp, wrapping her fingers around its handle. Grasping her chin with his fingers, he forced her to meet his eyes. “Listen to me carefully. You cannot help her. You will only be in the way.”
She hated that she could not see anything familiar in him. No glow of tenderness. No spark of love or gentleness. No hint of softness. She hated not-Henry.
“I do not like you,” she whispered.
His head tilted. “I expect you don’t. But you will obey me, wife. Now, go. Return to our bedchamber. Wait for me.”
He released her without another word, turning his back and stalking toward the prone figure bleeding on the morning room floor—the man not-Henry had evidently killed.
She stumbled backward, the circle of golden light bobbing and receding from the horrific scene. As she braced a hand on the opposite wall of the corridor and turned to make her way back to the bedchamber, she heard not-Henry call out, “One last thing, Maureen. Begin packing. We leave before sunrise.”
*~*~*
The motion of the carriage jarred her awake just in time to see the disappearing sun painting the sky pink and orange. They’d been traveling since before daybreak, stopping to change horses only when necessary. Not-Henry had offered few explanations and fewer reassurances. None, to be precise.
“Pack only what you need. Nothing more,” he’d said upon entering their bedchamber. Then, without waiting for her compliance, he’d emptied one of her trunks, piling two gowns and a pair of stockings on one side of the bed, then plopping her valise beside the paltry collection. He’d walked to the dressing table and tossed her silver-handled hairbrush onto the mattress from across the room. It had landed precisely an inch from the valise.
Having managed earlier to coil and pin her hair and to dress herself in her dark-blue cambric travel gown and leather half-boots, she had dutifully begun folding the gowns and placing them into the valise, adding a spencer and pelisse and extra petticoat, then stuffing and pressing until the case closed properly. While he’d stripped off his shirt and used the ice-cold bathwater to wash, she’d ignored the howling ache at the center of her chest and said as calmly as she could manage, “Explain what is happening, Henry. Please.”
Donning a new shirt and carelessly tied cravat, he had taken long minutes to reply. She’d watched him stalking like a restless cat from dressing room to window to copper tub and back to the dressing room, gathering up his things and stuffing them into a case of his own. Finally, he’d stopped beside the window again, looking grim and cold. “We had an intruder. The blackguard attacked Regina.”
She’d winced upon hearing her maid’s name spoken aloud.
His finger had dropped away from where he’d held the draperies aside. He’d turned his gaze to her.
Her heart had turned to ice.
“This will not be the end of it. To keep you safe, we must leave London immediately.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t need to understand. You need to do as I say.”
She’d opened her mouth to protest that he was being unreasonable.
He’d cut her off immediately, closing the distance between them with shocking speed. “This is not a game, Maureen.” His hand had cupped her nape with chilled fingers and forced her to meet those steel-sharp eyes. “This is the blackest reality. If you wish to survive it, you will do precisely as I instruct. No hesitation. No delay. No protests or willfulness. Do you hear me?”
She had heard him. And she had elected to trust him, nodding her agreement even though it seemed the man she had married and the world she had known was gone.
Now, as the sun set beyond the windows of the carriage—a small, rented travel coach with unforgiving springs and a tendency to creak when turning left—she wondered if she had made a mistake in not demanding answers before their departure. She’d expected them to travel north to Henry’s country estate, Fairfield Park. Surely, she’d concluded, he would take her there, for what sort of criminal would pursue an earl and countess all the way to Suffolk?
But, no. They had, in fact, been traveling in a westerly direction for more than fifteen hours. Her backside was numb, her lower back longed to be numb, and her only refuge from the agony of her memories was fitful bouts of napping with her rolled-up pelisse for a pillow.
Not-Henry had chosen to ride outside the carriage like a sentinel. She spotted him through the window now and then, resting Dag and mounting another horse to keep them fresh. The other men he’d brought with them—Stroud and five strapping footmen—similarly surrounded the carriage like a contingent of mounted guards. They had all abandoned their livery in favor of plain woolen coats, broad-brimmed hats, and riding breeches.
Oh, and weapons. Pistols. Knives. One even carried a hunting rifle across his lap.
She had exhausted herself trying to guess what was going on. Now, she rubbed her eyes and cataloged her theories. First, it was possible Henry was mad. In fact, that had been her first thought. But she’d abandoned the idea almost immediately. The broken window, cracked table, and dead intruder all suggested the danger was real.
And Regina. Oh, God. Regina.
She shook her head. She could not dwell upon Regina, lest grief’s greedy abyss swallow her up.
Instead, she reviewed theory two: thievery. Perhaps Henry had overreacted to a common burglar, and now they were traveling west to heaven-knew-where because there were fewer people—and, thus, fewer thieves—in the farthest reaches of Cornwall. But that brought her back to theory one, Henry’s madness. And Henry was not mad. Right now, he was also not Henry, but that was neither here nor there. Even not-Henry was sane—vexing, forbidding, hard, and a bit frightening, but sane.
Her third theory consisted of silly fancies in which Henry was secretly battling a mysterious villain who would stop at nothing to defeat him. She snorted at that one. Even young, imaginative Kate would balk at such a tale.
She had no fourth theory, for she’d run out of notions. Her head and body ached with exhaustion. The ale she’d imbibed at the last coaching inn sat frothy and unsettled in her stomach. And she suspected Henry had no intention of stopping until they reached Land’s End—perhaps not even then. She wouldn’t be surprised to find herself hip-deep in seawater before he called a halt.
Four hours, two coaching inns, and one rat-ridden public house later, she was proven wrong, much to her relief. The darkness had grown thick and suffocating inside the coach, though the air was now damp and cold. She’d sat for hours, remembering too much, shivering and huddled beneath the dubious warmth of her wrinkled pelisse. Then, the travel coach creaked as they turned sharply left. She blinked, trying to make out the shadowy landscape. She thought she glimpsed a low wall covered in moss, but who could say for certain in the relentless black?
The men outside called to one another, repositioning as they all maneuvered onto the narrow lane. Less than a quarter-hour later, the coach came to a rocking stop outside a large, mismatched manor house surrounded by looming trees. As best she could make out, one half of the house was constructed of dark stone with diamond-paned windows, several of which were lit. On the right side, running perpendicular to the main structure, was a half-timbered wing clearly built in a different era.
The coach door opened, giving her a start. It was not-Henry, his face shadowed from the lantern light by his hat’s brim. He stretched an arm toward her. “Come,” he ordered, his voice broken and rusty. “Let’s get you inside, pet.”
Hearing him call her “pet” again made her want to weep. She flew into his arms, crushing her pelisse between them and knocking his hat to the ground. He grunted and staggered backward, but his strong arms held her blessedly tight against his muscular frame as he dragged her out of the carriage and lowered her feet to the ground.
He smelled different, and yet the same. Like horse and sweat and salty air, but also like sandalwood and her Henry. His hand came up to cup her head as she buried her nose in the spot beneath his ear, near where his jaw muscle flexed.
Her breath was ragged against the creases of his cravat and collar, her chest tight with circling tension. She swallowed down the rising sobs and held her breath to regain control.
“We must go inside,” he murmured in her ear. But, she noted, he did not loosen his grip.
Finally, she nodded her agreement, and he slowly released her, his hand settling along her lower back to nudge her toward the great oak door. Two broad-shouldered footmen were already using the large brass knocker. Moments later, the door opened to reveal a short, round, rosy-cheeked woman wearing a mobcap and a weary expression. The woman greeted them with a nod and a quick curtsy.
“Welcome to Yardleigh Manor, my lord,” she murmured to Henry.
“Mrs. Poole,” he answered, urging Maureen forward into the well-lit interior. “My wife will require a bath straight away.” Dimly, she moved past the woman who was apparently the housekeeper, given the ring of keys that jangled as she bobbed another curtsy.
“At once, my lord. Your ladyship, it is our pleasure to provide whatever you may need after your long journey. Would you care for tea? Perhaps a bite to eat?”
Rendered numb and speechless by the day’s events, Maureen blinked and swayed on her feet, trying to bring the oak-paneled walls of the large, octagonal entrance hall into focus. Light and sound flickered in and out. Or perhaps she imagined it.
Dimly, she heard Henry telling the housekeeper—Mrs. Poole, was it?—to deliver a tray to their bedchamber along with the bath. Then, without asking, he bent and scooped Maureen into his arms, one bracing her back and the other cradling her knees. She clung to his neck, sick with fatigue and dizziness as he strode through a doorway, down a dark corridor, and up a set of stairs.
“Henry,” she whispered in his ear, her fingers sifting the chestnut strands just above his nape. “Where are we?”
“East Devonshire.”
Ahead of them, a liveried footman carried a lantern. He led them to another oak door. She felt the scratchy wool of Henry’s coat against her cheek, the cool air of the new chamber as they entered. But her eyes were dry and heavy, the voices of Henry and the footman faint in her ears.
Beneath her now, the softness of a mattress—so much better than the stiff seats of the rented coach—invited her to rest. But Henry would not allow it. He rolled her onto her side and began plucking at the closures of her gown, then at the laces of her corset, then at the pins in her hair.
“I can do it,” she murmured, embarrassed at being undressed like a child. But her words slurred and slid, her eyes weighted against opening.
“Don’t bother with the bath, Mrs. Poole,” she heard Henry say. “Just bring warm water, bread, and tea.”
Frowning, she grunted as her sleeves were tugged down her arms in sharp motions. “Where is Regina?” she grumbled. “She is so much better at this.”
The motions stopped.
Darkness beckoned. She thought she might have fallen asleep, because the next thing she knew, she was naked beneath a set of sheets and blankets. The room was dark, but she was no longer cold—exceedingly warm, in fact. She lay on her side facing a window. Between her legs was a hard, muscled thigh. At her back was a hard, muscled chest. Wrapped around her waist and banding upward between her breasts were hard, muscled arms.
They held her so tightly, she could scarcely breathe. She explored the one between her breasts, fingering the puckered scar amidst a dusting of hair.
He was all heat and strength, his muscles tightening reflexively as he squeezed her tighter. Semi-hardness prodded her backside, but he made no move to touch her more intimately. He simply held her, his warm breath rhythmic against her nape and ear.
She clasped his hand, interlaced her fingers with his, and tucked her chin to lay a kiss upon his palm. Slowly, she relaxed into the curve of his body, breathed deeply of his familiar-yet-unfamiliar scent, and interlaced their fingers to draw his palm over her heart.
As the darkness swept over her once again, she soaked in his heat the way she would a deliciously warm bath. And just before the faint memory of horror and violence could take hold, she heard him whisper, “Sleep now, pet. I shall keep you safe. This I promise you.”
*~*~*