Not the Dukes Darling by Hoyt, Elizabeth (14)

That afternoon Freya strolled the small enclosed garden at the back of Lovejoy House, trying to think of a plan to save Lady Randolph. If she could get Eleanor out, then they might be able to use Lord Randolph’s abominable treatment of his innocent wife as leverage against the Witch Act. Even in an English society biased against women, a husband telling everyone his wife was dead but secretly imprisoning her was beyond the pale.

As she understood it from James, whom she’d ordered to watch Randolph House, the problem in freeing Lady Randolph was that the cellar had only one entrance, which was well guarded. Lord Randolph had already declared his wife dead, complete with funeral and headstone. If he was alerted in any way that there was to be a rescue attempt, he might simply murder Lady Randolph to cover up his crimes.

If Lady Randolph had a living male relative of any power whatsoever, they might call upon him to take up her cause, but Eleanor did not.

Freya trailed her fingers over a pale-pink rose, peering into the curled heart of the flower. Lady Randolph was well and truly at her husband’s mercy. He could imprison her, he could kill her and cover up the crime, and he could use her dowry to do it.

The whole thing was terrible, wrong, and infuriating.

The only way that Freya could see to foil Lord Randolph was to produce Lady Randolph herself for society and prove that she was alive and entirely sane.

But to do that they first had to liberate her.

Freya sighed. Lady Randolph’s horrific use by her husband rather gave a woman pause when it came to dealing with the male sex. Yet she’d freely lain with Harlowe just the night before.

She bent to inhale the heady perfume of the rose. Should she feel guilty for sharing herself with Harlowe?

For taking a lover?

Yes, most definitely, according to all she’d been taught growing up by governesses and vicars. A lady should preserve her virginity, even if she meant never to marry.

But her heritage was with the Wise Women. Her mother and grandmother and great-grandmother and on beyond time had been Wise Women. Any woman brought into the family by marriage was taught their ways by the de Moray women. All daughters were initiated when they came of age.

The Wise Women saw sex and marriage from a slightly different point of view. Most Wise Women were married and had children, but there were some who lived in Dornoch who remained unwed and took lovers. Some had children without a husband. Some had no need of men at all. And some took other women as lovers.

No one way of being a woman was considered better than another. If she decided to return to Dornoch to live she would be welcomed, particularly if she was carrying a child.

Every child was considered a gift by the Wise Women.

The crunch of boots on gravel made her turn.

Harlowe walked toward her with purposeful steps, the sun making his hair glint bronze. He wore black today and he looked both stern and heart-stoppingly handsome. Tess trotted behind him, pausing now and again to sniff a flower beside the path.

“Good afternoon,” she said.

He walked right up to her and curled his big hand around the back of her head, holding her as he bent to kiss her.

The kiss caught her by surprise, sudden and intense. She moaned beneath his lips, opening her mouth for more, greedy for his taste.

He let her go, looking quite satisfied with himself. “Are you ready to go riding?”

She nodded as Tess came up to her for a welcoming pat. Freya had received a note from him just after luncheon, proposing a ride, and she already wore her habit.

He held out his arm and she took it as they walked to the stables.

This was strange. For five years she’d lived as a paid chaperone. Her status had been just above the servants’, and she’d grown used to sitting in the background while the Hollands rode or danced or were courted by gentlemen.

Was she being courted?

She glanced from beneath her eyelashes at Harlowe. He had been her childhood dream so many years ago, and for a moment she felt a sense of vertigo. She remembered him as a youth, tall, bony, handsome but unformed.

And now: still tall, but broader, fully matured, a shadow of cynicism in his dark eyes. The two images wavered and merged, for he was the same being, a man she’d known all her life.

With a fifteen-year gap.

She flexed her fingers on his arm, feeling the muscle beneath the cloth. He was real. He was here.

Her life had been turned upside down that night fifteen years ago. The de Moray family hadn’t realized it at first, but they’d all of them lost their standing, their friends, their place in the world, and things had remained that way for Freya.

Now in an odd way her life had been turned upside down again. A gentleman of her own rank was walking with her.

This, once upon a time, had been what was expected of her life.

Freya wasn’t sure how she felt about it. She’d lived so many years alone and independent. Perhaps it was too late to revert to what the rest of the world considered normal.

They came to the stable yard, where two horses were waiting already saddled. The horse she was to ride, she couldn’t help noticing, was a better mount than the one she’d ridden to the picnic. He was a bay gelding, shaking his head as she settled herself in the sidesaddle.

She looked at Harlowe, and at her nod, he turned his horse’s head and rode out of the yard with her by his side.

He chose the opposite way from that strange little wood, following the path they’d traversed to the picnic. Tess loped ahead of them, sometimes stopping to investigate the hedges that grew beside the road.

The sky was a wide, deep blue, with clouds making dashed white brushstrokes on the horizon. It was a beautiful day.

After a minute or so Freya asked, “I suppose you heard that Mr. Plimpton has quit the area?”

His upper lip curled. “Yes, and good riddance.”

“That does seem to be the general consensus.”

He snorted but didn’t reply.

For several minutes they rode in silence.

Freya kept thinking about Lady Randolph’s dilemma. She wished she could ask Harlowe’s opinion.

That thought brought her up short. She didn’t usually seek anyone’s advice. She might work with the Crow or Messalina, but she made her own decisions, debated her next move only with herself.

Suddenly that seemed rather lonely.

Harlowe glanced at her almost as if he’d heard her thoughts. “All right?”

She took a breath. “Yes.”

“Good,” he said gravely. “I wouldn’t want you to endure a jaunt about the countryside simply for my exemplary company.”

Freya bit her lip, fighting down a smile.

“Come.” Harlowe turned off the main road and onto a path, urging his mare up a hill.

Freya followed, leaning forward slightly in the saddle.

Tess burst from the bushes beside them, running past the horses, tongue hanging from the side of her mouth in dog joy.

Freya’s gelding shied in a quick step to the side. She swayed, catching hold of the brace handle on the far side of her saddle, her heart leaping.

“Steady?” Harlowe asked, his gaze sharp.

She inhaled and nodded. “Yes.”

They reached the summit of the hill. Harlowe halted his horse and dismounted, looping the reins over a scraggly bush. He came to Freya’s side as she was unhooking her upper leg from the pommel. She slid down into his arms, feeling his heat against her chest, and caught her breath, looking up at him.

She’d let this man into her body the night before. Felt him move against her, his big shoulders sliding beneath her palms, his legs between hers.

She still ached inside, there between her legs. Not badly. Just enough to remind her every now and again.

He stepped back and tethered her horse as well before taking her hand and drawing her to turn around.

Freya caught her breath. There beneath them, the countryside spread out in green rolling hills. She could see fields bordered by hedges and walls, the road trundling on, and brown cow dots grazing in a field. She could see a tiny needlepoint church steeple in the distance, and, closer, two men walking along a path, long rakes over their shoulders.

She could see the world.

“It goes on forever, doesn’t it?” she said.

She felt him look at her. “Perhaps. It’s England, green and growing. One of my ducal estates is just beyond that hill.” He pointed to a spot somewhere to their right. “I haven’t had a chance to visit it yet.”

She glanced at him. “Do you have many estates and manors?”

“A ludicrous amount.” His mouth twisted. “When I think of my father plotting my marriage to Sophy and bemoaning the fact that he had to pay for it with a few acres, it seems rather ironic.”

“But he had no idea you would inherit the dukedom,” she pointed out. “You said your line was quite removed from the succession.”

“No, you’re right,” he said, still looking out over the rolling hills.

She hesitated, then asked, “When did your father die? I’m afraid I don’t remember.”

Harlowe shook his head. “There’s no reason you should. My father passed away four years ago. While I was in India. He died alone—Mother had succumbed to a fever a year after I left England. He never remarried, and as far as I can tell was never close to another lady.”

“He must’ve loved her dearly,” Freya said softly.

“No,” he said with calm finality. “I don’t think my father ever loved anyone but himself.”

She swallowed. “I’m so sorry, Kester.”

“Thank you.” He shook his head slightly. “But it no longer matters. He doesn’t have any power over my life anymore.”

Didn’t he? Freya wondered. Wasn’t a person always affected by their parents, even if they were long dead? It seemed to her that a parent’s influence—for good or bad—was a permanent thing. Something impossible to escape. She’d been molded by her mother and father’s love and by Aunt Hilda’s stern affection.

Wouldn’t Harlowe have been just as affected by a lack of love?

But she didn’t say that. Instead she asked, “What about your mother? Were you close to her?”

His mouth quirked. “I believe so. The first year I lived in India she sent me four letters. The only letter my father sent me was the one informing me of her death.”

She reached out and touched his hand.

He threaded his fingers with hers, his eyes on the hills below. “I had no voice in my marriage. I accepted Sophy as my wife because I had no choice. I was eighteen and without power. But now I am a man and a duke. I don’t want a girl who is afraid of me, or one who will agree with everything I say and do.” He turned to her and took her other hand as well. “I want a lady who will be my partner. A woman who knows her own mind. Someone like you, Freya. Someone to bring me comfort at night.”

She squeezed his hand, but she said cautiously, “I don’t know if I’m the woman you want.”

He inhaled, his brows drawing together as if he were bracing himself for battle. “Why?”

She looked away from his too-intense cerulean eyes. “I’m not the girl you knew before…” She took a breath. “Before that night.”

A trace of impatience flared in his face. “I didn’t know you as a child, not really. You were my friend’s younger sister. A boy nearly a man doesn’t pay attention to girls so young.”

“But you think you know me now?” She cocked her head. “You only met me again days ago. You know nothing of my life over the last fifteen years. You know very little about my life now. There may be things you won’t like about me.”

“Such as?” he challenged.

She looked him in the eye. It was time she told him. “Do you know who the Wise Women are?”

“Wise Women?” Christopher eyed Freya curiously. What a strange question. He couldn’t see how it related to this discussion. But he respected Freya and her opinions. He thought and then said, “I seem to remember my nurse when I was quite small talking about witches and calling them Wise Women.”

Freya snorted in a very unladylike way. “Wise Women are not witches. Only very superstitious or fanatical people think that. The Wise Women are a sort of sect that began before the Romans in this country. Before records were written down, because we had no written language.”

He stared at her. “How do you know about them, then?”

“Because I’m a Wise Woman,” Freya said. She said it as if it was something important. Portentous.

“What does that mean, exactly?” he asked slowly.

She sighed, turning to look out over the land below. “Many things. A Wise Woman vows to help other Wise Women and women in general. She learns our history and, if she wishes, she can learn other esoteric matters.” She glanced at him. “The uses of certain herbs and how to grow them. The secrets of childbirth and how women’s bodies work. We have a large library, books written by our foremothers with all the knowledge and history of our order. Once, centuries ago, there were many thousands of Wise Women. During that time a Wise Woman could live her life in a village or town and not do anything particularly different from other women besides meeting with other Wise Women. But then came the witch hunters.”

“Your sect has actually been hunted as witches?” Christopher frowned. He didn’t like this. Superstitious people could be very dangerous.

“Yes,” she said grimly. “Wise Women were hunted as witches beginning in the fourteen hundreds. Thousands were tortured and burned. We retreated to Scotland, but then the witch hunts flared in Scotland in the last century.” She looked at him, her eyes fiery. “A worse sort of witch hunter arose—the Dunkelders. They’re fanatical and relentless. They know about the Wise Women and they systematically hunt us.”

He took her arms, drawing her close, because what she was telling him was arousing all his protective instincts. Why would she seek out destruction?

“You remember I told you about my aunt Hilda?” she said softly.

He nodded, almost wishing he couldn’t hear more.

“The burns on her face and the damage to her lungs that eventually killed her were from a Dunkelder attack. The Dunkelders came when she was a young woman and burned the cottage that she and her friend were living in. Aunt Hilda tried to save the other woman. She wasn’t able to, but in the process her lungs were burned as well as her face.”

“Freya,” he said, keeping his voice even with effort. “That witch mark on the well house—are you being hunted by a Dunkelder?”

She hesitated. “I’ve been warned that there’s a Dunkelder in the house party, but besides the witch mark, I’ve seen no sign of him,” she said simply, as if it were the most normal thing in the world that she might be being stalked by a crazed fanatic who wanted to burn her. “But it’s important that you keep all of this secret.”

“Of course I’ll keep it secret,” he said impatiently. “But you need to leave Lovejoy House. Come with me. I can keep you safe in—”

“No.”

He stared into her eyes and saw that she was disappointed by his reaction. What the hell?

Christopher took a deep breath. Then another, reminding himself that Freya liked to make decisions for herself. “Why not?”

“Because I have a position in the Wise Women,” she said matter-of-factly. “I’m the Macha. That means, well…spy, I suppose, is the easiest explanation. I gather information for the Wise Women. There are so few of us left now. Our leaders and most of the Wise Women have retreated to a town in the far north of Scotland. So you see why I’m needed to warn them of dangers that might come from the wider world. I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but there’s such a danger in Parliament. An act permitting the torture and trial of witches again. I can’t let such an act pass.”

“How will you stop it?” he asked, trying to keep his voice level. Was she insane, as he’d first thought her? Thinking she could stop a Parliamentary act from being passed?

“The man leading the push to pass the act is Lord Elliot Randolph, the Lovejoys’ neighbor. He’s imprisoned his wife. If I can free her, I can use what he did to her to keep him from backing the act.”

He stared at her, this ferocious, brave, mad woman. “Freya…”

She raised her brows. “Yes?”

He shook his head, seizing on the simplest objection. “I thought Lady Randolph died last year.”

“We have information that she’s still alive.”

“Even if she is, what makes you think that he’s done something so terrible?” he asked gently. “Perhaps Lady Randolph has gone off her head and he’s confined her for her own good.”

“In the cellar?” she asked sharply.

He winced. “Very well. I agree that what you say seems most likely—”

“Thank you,” she replied, her voice dripping sarcasm.

He sighed, leaning his brow against hers. She’d been so tender last night, but this was the other side to his Freya: a warrior who went into battle without fear. “Must you put yourself in danger? Must you do this alone?”

“I have allies,” she said softly, placing her hand against his cheek. “And as for danger, yes, I’m afraid so. This is my mission within the Wise Women.”

Christopher thought he might hate the Wise Women. “Very well. You are a Wise Woman. You will not avoid danger, even if I ask it. I accept this about you. In return, will you accept that I want you as my wife? Not to imprison, not to halve, but to walk by my side? To hold and cherish?”

She’d rejected him before, and Christopher wasn’t so vain that he thought she would agree to marry him so soon afterward…although he had made love to her in the meantime. No, this battle was better fought as a long game.

She shook her head. “There’s the matter of my family as well. Not only Ran, but Lachlan, Caitriona, and Elspeth. Even if I could reconcile myself to our past, I have no hope that they—”

“We don’t have to deal with that right now,” he interrupted. “The past, your family, Ran, and everything else are things to think about later. At this moment all I need to know is this: Are you willing to try?”

She was staring at him with a suspicious expression now and he waited, a little amused despite the alarming information she’d given him.

Despite the specter of their past.

Then abruptly she nodded, oddly proud. “I’ve warned you, Kester. If you find at the end of this that I am not the woman you thought me, if you are disappointed—”

He kissed her, stopping the warnings. She was warm in his arms, her lips hot as they moved beneath his mouth. She was still protesting even as she kissed him back.

This woman. This aggravating, argumentative woman. He wanted her—that he already knew—but as he bit her bottom lip gently he realized something he hadn’t foreseen. He might need her. In body. In mind. In spirit.

He lifted his head, watching her dazed eyes clear.

Hoping he wasn’t as bemused.

Wanting was one thing.

Needing was quite another.

He turned and pulled her back to her horse. “Let’s return. It’ll be time to dress for supper soon.”

He whistled for Tess, who had been curled in a ball beneath a tree. She stood and stretched and then shook before trotting to them.

Christopher could feel Freya’s gaze on him as he cupped his hands to give her a step.

She placed her hand on his shoulder and her boot in his palms, as trusting as a babe, and despite his newly discovered worry over her role as a Wise Woman, he felt a flush of pride.

He’d win her and then he’d keep her safe always.

Because she’d be his.

They descended the hill, Christopher taking the lead, until they came to the country road again. There he pulled back so Freya could come abreast.

He turned to her to ask—

A rabbit started from its hiding place beneath a hedge, running directly in front of Freya’s mount.

The gelding bolted.

Freya remembered being eight and listening outside a room while her mother and a group of ladies discussed in hushed voices the death of a neighbor.

The neighbor had been dragged to death by her horse.

The gelding rocked and bumped beneath her, and she clung desperately on.

If she fell she might die outright.

Or her habit might catch on the stirrup and she, too, might be dragged to death.

The gelding swerved, and she desperately threw her weight against the far side of the saddle so she wouldn’t slip. She couldn’t pull him to a stop. He was out of control.

She was going to die if she couldn’t think of a way to save herself.

Her heart was battering her rib cage, her breath caught in her throat, and she saw a turn in the road up ahead.

She pulled with all her might on the reins, ignoring what the bit must be doing to the horse’s mouth. She needed to stop the horse before the turn.

And if she couldn’t, she’d have to leap off.

Better to have some control over her fall than to be thrown from the horse.

“Jump to my horse!”

She looked to her left and saw Harlowe riding beside her, his face grim and determined.

He caught her eye and shouted, “I’ll catch you.”

Impossible. She’d fall between the horses and be trampled. She shook her head fiercely. “The only way is to jump free of the saddle to the ground.”

“Freya. Goddamn it, trust me.”

She glanced to the side again.

Harlowe was bent over his horse’s neck, his face grim. “Kick your boot from the stirrup!”

“I’ll fall!” she screamed back.

“No.” He turned his head, and for a second in that awful race to death she saw his set face, his determined eyes staring at her. “I’ll catch you. Believe me.”

She kicked her foot free.

The gelding lurched, shying away from Harlowe’s black.

She jumped—

And he caught her.

One arm wrapped hard about her waist. Her body dangling to the side of his horse.

The gelding swerved away.

She gasped, trying to draw breath.

He couldn’t hold her so. She was a dead weight and his other hand was busy controlling the horse.

He grunted and with one arm lifted her bodily over the saddle in front of him.

She clutched at him, grasping his forearms in terror, mindful not to get in the way of the reins.

He slowed the horse to a trot, his thighs clenching beneath her.

She bumped against Harlowe’s chest for a few seconds before the horse blessedly began walking. She spied Tess loping along beside them, a cautious distance between her and the horse.

Harlowe’s arm was still around her waist, a band of iron, making her stays dig into her flesh.

But holding her safe.

So safe.

She closed her eyes and drew in a calming breath.

“Are you all right?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

“Yes.” She nodded. “Yes, thank you.”

He laughed breathlessly. “You’re most welcome. Were you really going to jump to the ground?”

She twisted a little to see his face. His expression was odd—as if she’d performed some unexpected feat. “Yes. What would you have done if you’d been on a spooked horse?”

“Held on with my knees until I could bring him under control.”

She arched an eyebrow. “And if you happened to have both knees to one side of the horse because you were riding sidesaddle and therefore were about to fall?”

He looked at her, his brows pulled together as he answered. “I’d jump.”

“Quite.”

“I bow to your greater logic,” he drawled above her. “Come up here.” He heaved and settled her more securely before him. “Can you throw your leg over the horse?”

“I’d have to pull up my skirts,” she said practically. Her skirts were bunched beneath her. “I don’t know if I’d remain decent—”

“Fuck that,” he muttered, rather shocking her. “I don’t want you falling again.”

She’d rather not fall, either, and upon consideration decided that expediency was the better part of modesty.

With a bit of very awkward wriggling she freed her left leg and got it over the horse’s withers.

Harlowe pulled her against his chest and turned the horse’s head in the direction of Lovejoy House.

Freya was still catching her breath. She shivered.

“Are you well?” he asked above her, his deep voice calm. “You’re not injured?”

“I’m perfectly fine,” she replied, trying to steady her voice.

“Hm.” She felt the brush of his lips on her ear. “I’ll feel better when we’re back at Lovejoy House.”

“Yes.”

Twenty minutes later they rode into the stable yard.

A groom came running out to catch the horse’s bridle. “Your Grace! I’m that glad to see you. The gelding came trotting back with foam on his withers. We were just about to send out a search party.”

Harlowe nodded. “Thank you, but we are unharmed.”

“By God’s grace,” the man exclaimed.

Harlowe dismounted. He turned and held up his arms for Freya.

She managed to move her leg back over the horse’s neck and then slid into his arms.

He pulled her close. “Come.”

As he led her into the house, Tess trotting behind, Freya couldn’t help but think how safe she’d felt in Harlowe’s arms. She’d never had quite that feeling with another person before—the sensation that he would keep her from harm at any expense.

That feeling of safety, of care, was seductive. Perhaps too seductive. She was vulnerable to this—the attentiveness of another person. Harlowe’s attentiveness.

She must be sure that any decision she made she made with a clear head, unbiased by her own weaknesses.