Not the Dukes Darling by Hoyt, Elizabeth (9)

The sun must have set, because the well house was so dark Freya couldn’t see her hand in front of her face. “I suppose everyone is at supper by now.”

“Yes.” Harlowe wasn’t frantic anymore, but she could feel his body tense around her.

“In the normal way of things I wouldn’t miss my supper, I think. But when it’s been taken away I suddenly feel ravenous.” She sighed. “And thirsty.”

“Sit up,” he commanded. She scooted forward and heard the sounds of him getting to his feet. “We are in a well house.”

“Do you think it still has drinkable water?” she asked, simply to give him her voice in the darkness.

“Maybe.” She could hear his shoes scrape on the stone floor, and then there was a rattle. “Here it is.” More rattling. He must be drawing a bucket up. “Damn. It’s dry.”

Her heart sank. “That’s a pity.” Would they die of thirst? How long did it take to die of thirst? She had no idea.

His shoes scraped on the stones again, and she called, “I’m over here.”

And then his hand touched her head. He lowered himself to the floor, sitting beside her but close enough to bump shoulders with her.

She was surprised to find that she rather missed his arms about her.

“Are you going to tell me what happened to you after that night at Greycourt?” His voice seemed somehow warm in the darkness.

She realized suddenly that if she had to be locked in a well house she was glad that it was he with her. Her brows drew together. When had her attitude toward him changed? When had he gone from an enemy to something very close to a friend?

“Freya?”

His voice brought her back to the well house and his question.

She sighed. “Ran was ill after the beating. You know that. They’d crushed his right hand and infection set in. That led to fever. He was very badly off.” She stared into the darkness, remembering days of fear and tiptoeing around Ayr Castle. Hearing the servants weep and low voices behind closed doors. The important stride of the doctors as they came and went.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Only a week ago she would’ve scoffed at his apology. Would’ve railed against him and replied with the cruelest words she could muster.

But that was a week ago. “I know,” she said quietly, and felt his shoulder relax a fraction. She inhaled. “A day after the doctors had to amputate Ran’s hand, Papa died.”

She heard him swallow. “I hadn’t realized the old duke died so soon after the beating.”

“I think”—she inhaled shakily—“that Papa died of a broken heart. Ran hadn’t yet woken fully from the beating, and the doctors weren’t sure he would survive. Mama died when Elspeth was born, of course. That left Lachlan as the next eldest of us children. It was he that the men of business and the vicar consulted. He was fifteen, and if Ran had died he would’ve inherited the dukedom.”

“But Ran didn’t die.” He was tapping one foot against the floor. It must be torture to be locked in such a small, dark space after what he’d endured in Calcutta.

“No. He survived, though it was months before he rose from that bed. He limps still when he’s tired.”

“So he became a duke at eighteen,” Harlowe said gruffly. “Damn me. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”

Freya turned toward him, though of course she couldn’t see him. He sounded weary. Resigned. He did not sound as if his own dukedom had brought him any joy.

She cleared her throat. “Ran was the Duke of Ayr, yes, but he was also in disgrace. He became a recluse. Lachlan continued to manage the estates and the dukedom. He still does.”

“And you and your sisters?”

“We needed someone to take care of us. Elspeth was only six—she hardly remembers before the tragedy. Caitriona was ten and I twelve. My father’s sister, Aunt Hilda, came for us.” Freya’s lips curled. “We’d never met her before. She was a tall, thin woman with burn scars on her face and she came stomping into Ayr Castle. I think she thoroughly scandalized the butler and housekeeper. We girls really should’ve been scared of her—she was a daunting woman—but I think we were just so grateful to have someone to take charge that we clung on to her. Aunt Hilda lived in the north of Scotland, and she took us to live with her.”

“She left Ran and Lachlan behind?”

She couldn’t tell if he was disapproving or simply curious. “Yes. Ran was still not well, and Lachlan needed to see to the dukedom. Aunt Hilda was the daughter and sister of dukes. She understood duty and why the dukedom had to be maintained. I think she would’ve lived with us at Ayr Castle but for the burn scars that disfigured her face. She didn’t like people staring.”

The tap of his foot was rhythmic in the darkness. “You grew up there? In the north of Scotland?”

“Yes.” She tilted back her head, remembering a house full of women. “It was actually quite lovely. There were hills to roam around in, beautiful streams, winter nights by a roaring fire. Aunt Hilda was our tutor, and she had friends who would stay with us to teach us things she couldn’t.”

“Fencing?”

She laughed. “Yes, fencing. Aunt Hilda thought it a wonderful exercise, and since it was only we three girls, there was no one about to disapprove. Not that she would’ve cared for anyone else’s opinion.”

“She sounds like a tartar.”

Was he smiling? She wished she could see. “She could be. Aunt Hilda had very definite ideas. She believed in rising early. Porridge for breakfast and plain mutton or fish for supper—not any fancy English dishes, as she called them. She thought children should exercise every day. That we should know how to shoot and fish. We learned Latin, French, and Greek and all the names of the Roman emperors. And every week we read a philosophical book or tract and debated it amongst ourselves on Sunday.”

“Impressive,” he said. “You had a better education than many men—certainly a better education than I did.”

She turned to him in the dark. “But you were at Oxford.”

“Only for a year.” His voice was wry. “Your aunt Hilda sounds as if she was a strong-willed lady. I think I would’ve liked to have met her. Is she…?”

“She’s dead.” Freya cleared her throat. It had been nearly a decade and the sharp edges of her grief had worn down, but it was still there. Would always be there. “When I was eighteen. She had been in a fire—that was what caused the scars she was so self-conscious about. But the fire and smoke also hurt her lungs. Every winter she would cough terribly. One winter the cough took her.”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

There was a pause and she shivered. With the sun down, the temperature had dropped. If they were here all night it was going to be very uncomfortable soon.

Next to her, Harlowe inhaled. “Is that when you got a position as a companion?”

“No.” She wrapped her arms about herself, trying to keep warm. “I came to London when I was two and twenty.”

“Then why—”

She shivered again, rather violently.

“Damn it, you’re cold.” He moved, something rustled, and then she felt his coat drop on her shoulders. “There. Better?”

She should protest, but honestly she was so grateful for his coat she didn’t bother. It was much too large for her, of course, but that meant she could tuck her hands in the sleeves. “Yes. Thank you.”

“Come here now,” he said, his voice husky and close in the dark. He pulled her into his arms, holding her close. The heat of his body was lovely.

She groaned in appreciation.

He bent his head so that his voice was right in her ear as he said slowly, “I don’t understand why you took work.”

She couldn’t tell him about the Wise Women, so she gave him a partial truth. “After Papa died, Lachlan found that the dukedom was in debt. My grandfather invested heavily in the Darien scheme to found a Scottish colony in Panama. When it failed, most of the Ayr fortune was lost.”

“I never knew that,” Harlowe murmured.

“I think Papa made sure it wasn’t common knowledge,” she replied dryly. “Lachlan has said that from the records he’s seen, Papa spent his lifetime trying to regain our moneys with various ventures. When he died, his creditors called in his debts, and because of the scandal, because they thought Ran a murderer, no one would extend further credit.”

“And that’s why you needed to find work,” he said, his breath fanning the back of her neck.

She didn’t reply. Because of course it wasn’t. She’d come to London to be the Macha. The de Moray funds had been depressed, but not enough that she had to work.

She’d lied and prevaricated many times in the last five years and never felt a bit of guilt. Now, though, she was uneasy. She wished very much that she could tell Harlowe the truth.

Which was foolish. It was unsafe to tell anyone that she was a Wise Woman.

But she had an urge to trust Harlowe, when days before she’d called him enemy. Was it just the intimacy of the darkness and cold?

Or was there another reason she felt, deep in her chest, that she could trust him?

“And when I first saw you in Wapping?” he interrupted her thoughts. “How did you come to be rescuing a baby?”

She cleared her throat. “Aunt Hilda always said it was the duty of every lady to offer assistance when she saw those in need of help. The girl was a maid and the baby was the Earl of Brightwater. His father is dead and his father’s brother had imprisoned the child, keeping him from his mother. He hoped in this way to control the earldom and its assets. The countess asked for my help, so I helped her.”

“By kidnapping a child.” His tone was careful.

“Yes.”

His chuckle in her ear was unexpected. “You really are a firebrand.”

“Am I?”

“You know you are.”

His admiring tone brought a glow to her heart. She’d never before met a man outside her family who considered a woman’s willingness to act on her own decisions a good thing.

She could feel the press of his body against her back. Now that she was no longer thinking of how to keep him calm or how to explain her position in London, other things crept into her consciousness.

The strength of his arms keeping her warm. The rising and falling of his broad chest.

The scent of his male musk enveloping her.

He was a compelling man, and he made her feel very…female.

“Shall we lie down?” she whispered.

For a moment he made no movement.

Then he pulled her to lie on the ground next to him.

She turned to face him, and he let her use his arm as a pillow.

They lay face-to-face in the darkness. She could feel his breath on her lips. She leaned a little forward and touched her mouth to his.

When they had embraced before it had been like dueling—hard, swift, and angry. Not really a kiss at all.

This was different.

She hadn’t kissed many men in her life. And none had ever let her control the embrace. But Harlowe lay still as she brushed her lips against his.

She pulled back a little, waiting.

But he did nothing.

She opened her mouth and kissed him again, tasting his lips with her tongue. She found that her limbs were trembling. How could that be? From such a simple touch—one little kiss?

She curled her fingers into the back of his neck, feeling his hair brushing against her hand and the strong muscles of his shoulders.

His lips parted under hers and she licked into his mouth, angling her head. Wanting more.

His tongue brushed hers. Teasing. Tangling.

For a moment she forgot everything: who she was, who he was, where they were. All she could do was feel. A rising heat. A promise of all her binds unraveling.

It was that very loss of self—of control—that finally made her pull back, her lips parting from his reluctantly.

“I…” Her voice broke and she had to clear her throat. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offer something I won’t give.”

“No.” His voice was rough. “It’s I who should apologize.”

“Why?” She asked part irritated, part frustrated. “I was the one who kissed you.”

He chuckled quietly. “So you did. But I am a gentleman. Such things are always the responsibility of the gentleman.”

Freya wished then that she could tell him what she was. Lay at his feet a history of women making decisions for themselves in Britain that had begun before Julius Caesar.

Instead she contented herself with saying, “I am an adult. I take responsibility for my own actions—good or bad. If I wanted to bed you, it would be my decision, not yours.”

He was silent for a second. “But you don’t want to bed me.”

She did want him. She wanted to taste his mouth, taste his skin.

She shivered at the thought.

“I want to,” she whispered, telling him the truth because she wasn’t a coward. “But I don’t think it…wise.”

“Why not?”

She wished she could see his expression. “I think I’m afraid I won’t know how to stop.”

“Must you stop?” he asked, his voice a gentle murmur in the dark.

She closed her eyes as if she could block out the temptation in his voice that way.

“Yes, I think so.” Whatever had happened between them in the last hours, he had still hurt Ran. Even if she could forgive him, that fact would always be between them. “I’m sorry.”

Freya started to push away from him—it seemed less than honorable to take his heat while rejecting him.

But he pulled her back. “I’m not a ravening beast. Stay. For my sake, if not your own. I find comfort holding you.”

That at least she could allow. She relaxed inch by inch, muscle by muscle, into his warmth.

By eleven of the clock the next morning it was obvious that something had happened to Freya and Christopher.

Messalina had waited and waited the night before for Freya to come to her rooms as arranged. When she’d finally gone to bed at well past midnight, she’d tried to convince herself that she’d never expected Freya to keep her word. That her childhood friend had long disappeared into the stranger who looked at her so coldly.

Still, even with that lie, she’d been hurt.

Now she watched as Lord Lovejoy argued with Lord Rookewoode.

“Perhaps he left suddenly,” their host said, looking rather frantic.

“Without leaving a note?” The earl arched a skeptical eyebrow. “More to the point—without his valet?”

“The man said he was new to the duke’s employment,” Lord Lovejoy said distractedly. “When Harlowe didn’t retire to his own bed last night the valet obviously thought that he—” Lord Lovejoy cut himself off hastily with a sheepish glance around the room.

The guests were all gathered in the sitting room. Regina sobbed on Arabella’s shoulder while Lady Holland looked simultaneously irate and worried.

Lord Lovejoy loudly cleared his throat. “Harrumph! That is—”

Lord Rookewoode sighed. “Obviously the valet was wrong. Had Harlowe been about what his man suspected, he would’ve turned up long before now.”

“Oh, but—”

“My lord,” the earl said softly but with a definite note of command in his voice, “I think we must start a search party.”

“I agree,” young Mr. Lovejoy said, and that only set off another round of masculine dithering.

“Could they have eloped?” Lucretia murmured.

Messalina turned to frown at her younger sister.

Lucretia had taken the opportunity of everyone’s mixed distraction and hysteria to settle into the chair next to Messalina with a plate of tiny cakes.

“Where did you get those?” Messalina demanded.

Lucretia’s eyes widened innocently. “The cook gave them to me. I was famished. Breakfast was interrupted, if you remember. I only got a piece of toast before Lady Holland started accusing the duke of kidnapping and ravishing her companion.”

Messalina grabbed for the plate, but Lucretia had been her sister for over three and twenty years. She moved the plate to her other side without blinking.

Messalina huffed.

“Well?” Lucretia asked.

“Well what?” Messalina muttered. She’d gone back to watching the byplay.

Lucretia sighed as if long put upon. “Do you think they ran off on purpose?”

“No,” Messalina said, and rose.

“Where are you going?” Lucretia hissed, following her still clutching the plate.

“Outside,” Messalina said.

“Why?”

“Because they’ve already searched the house.”

“Oh, that does make sense,” Lucretia replied, mouth full of cake.

She trailed behind, but Messalina had other matters on her mind. She might not be friends with Freya anymore, but Messalina knew her.

Freya would never have done something as silly as run away with Christopher. Even if she had been lovesick over him when they’d been children.

Which meant either that Christopher had kidnapped her forcefully—unlikely, unless he’d changed quite a lot since they’d all been children together—or something else had happened to them both.

Messalina quickened her step.

Possibly something very bad.

“Not so fast,” Lucretia called from behind her.

Messalina ignored her, striding into the stable yard. She caught movement at the corner of the stables. A flash of something black and sinister.

Her step faltered.

But no, there was nothing there now.

And besides, he couldn’t be here.

She went to the stables with the thought that she could request a horse. Riding would be preferable to—and quicker than—tromping over the estate. But no one seemed to be around as she entered the cool darkness of the stables.

She wandered farther into the building, murmuring to the horses as she passed occupied stalls. Wherever were the grooms?

“Hi there!” Lucretia suddenly said from behind her, and Messalina spun.

A gnarled groom was standing with a pitchfork, blinking at them.

“Where is everyone?” Messalina asked impatiently just as she heard a muffled whine from behind the man. “What have you there?”

“Jus’ a cur,” the groom said nervously. “Nothing to be worried over, my lady. Shall I ready two horses for you?”

But Lucretia had already slipped behind the man and was making for a low door with a latch on it.

“Oi!” the groom called.

Messalina moved past him and was just in time to see as Lucretia pulled open the door.

Inside was Christopher’s dog. The animal had a scarf tightly tied around her muzzle and had been tethered to a pillar.

“Isn’t that Tess?” Lucretia said indistinctly. She was still chewing on a cake.

Messalina arched an eyebrow at her. “How do you know her name?”

Lucretia shrugged. “I like dogs.”

Messalina rolled her eyes and rounded on the groom. “What is the meaning of this? Why have you tied up the duke’s dog?”

“Had a note, didn’t I?” the man said, looking wary. “Wrapped around a guinea. Said to put her there and muzzle her. Not my fault if dukes got odd orders.”

Messalina shook her head, dismissing the man.

She went to the lunging, whining dog. “There, there, darling. We’ll get this muzzle off you right away.”

The dog wriggled and whimpered, obviously overjoyed to be found.

Messalina had to pry the scarf off with her fingers, worried that she’d hurt Tess, it was tied on that tightly.

But the dog proceeded to lick her hand when the scarf finally came off, so all appeared to be forgiven.

She moved on to the knot in the rope around Tess’s neck, contemplating who might’ve ordered this. She very much doubted that the note had been from Christopher. Not only did the man bring Tess everywhere with him, he had the habit of sneaking food to her as well. Quite obviously they adored one another.

Lucretia watched her struggle with the knot for a moment and then wandered off.

Messalina glanced at the groom. “Fetch some water in a bowl, please.”

He stumped away.

Lucretia returned with a huge knife just as the groom set down the bowl of water.

“Where did you get that?” Messalina huffed at her sister.

Lucretia shrugged vaguely. “It was sitting around.”

The groom had taken the opportunity to disappear.

“Hm.” Messalina looked back at Tess, now sitting alertly, water dripping from her muzzle. “If I hold her head, can you cut off the rope without hurting her?”

Lucretia cocked her head. “I think so.”

The minute Tess was let loose, she ran out of the stables.

“Dash it,” Messalina said, “now we’ve lost her.”

But then Tess came galloping back into the stables and barked at them.

“I believe she wants us to follow her,” Lucretia stated, as if this were something Messalina hadn’t already realized.

Messalina sent her a jaded look. “What are you still doing with that knife?”

Lucretia swished the knife through the air as if it were a very short sword. “I like it.”

Tess barked again, as if to remind them of more important matters.

“Fine,” Messalina said to the dog, and they set out.

Tess bypassed the house altogether and then led them past the garden. When she entered the small wood nearby, Messalina began to feel uneasy.

“It’s just as well you kept the knife,” she muttered to her sister.

“Do you think so?” Lucretia brightened. “Perhaps they’ve been captured by highwaymen.”

Messalina looked at her out of the corner of her eye. “Highwaymen?”

Lucretia shrugged. “More likely than pirates, you must admit.”

“Humph.”

Ten minutes later Messalina began to wonder if Tess simply enjoyed running through the woods. But then the path they were on turned and an odd, small stone house came into view.

Tess barked at the door.

“Hello?” came a voice from within.

Something relaxed in Messalina, and she realized suddenly that she’d been bracing herself all this time for tragedy. “Is that you, Freya?”

“Oh yes,” Freya’s voice sounded weak from relief. “Messalina?”

“Yes, it’s I.” Messalina pressed her palms to the door as if she could get closer to Freya inside. “Are you by yourself? Only Christopher is missing, too.”

“We’re both here,” Christopher shouted. “Can you open the door?”

Lucretia looked at the door at the same time as Messalina. There was a huge rusting padlock affixed to the door.

Someone had locked them in.

“I don’t think so,” Messalina replied slowly. Who could have done this? “We’ll have to go for help.”

She turned to Lucretia, but at that moment Lord Stanhope stepped from the woods. Behind him was Lord Lovejoy, Aloysius Lovejoy, and Lord Rookewoode.

“What are you doing?” Lord Stanhope asked disapprovingly as Tess circled the newcomers.

The earl shot him an irritated look. “Obviously the same thing we’re doing—searching for the duke and the companion.”

“Open the door, Rookewoode,” Christopher shouted from inside the house.

The earl’s eyebrows rose. “And you ladies have found them. Well done.”

There followed a few minutes of debate before Aloysius Lovejoy volunteered to go get an ax and some sturdy footmen.

The little group waited in uneasy silence before Viscount Stanhope said, “I can’t think who would play such a vicious joke on Miss Stewart and His Grace.”

“You think this a prank?” Lord Lovejoy asked. “If the dog hadn’t led the Misses Greycourt here, the outcome might have been dreadful.”

In fact they might’ve died. “Who do you think did it?” Messalina asked.

“A poacher or the like,” Lord Stanhope said with disapproval. “A ruffian of the lower classes.”

“He’d have to have done his poaching whilst equipped with a padlock,” Lord Rookewoode said mildly. He straightened from where he’d been examining the lock and the door and frowned. “Seems dashed unlikely. Do you have many poachers here?”

“We do,” Lord Lovejoy replied.

Lord Rookewoode shrugged. “Perhaps a poacher, then.” He still looked doubtful, though.

Lucretia idly whacked at the bushes with her knife.

Lord Stanhope stared at her with pursed lips, disapproval fairly radiating off him.

Messalina turned to Lord Lovejoy. “How did you know to come here?”

“Aloysius remembered the well house.”

“You didn’t?”

“No.” He paused, glancing at Lucretia, who was still destroying the vegetation. “Perhaps you should take your sister back to the house.”

Lord Stanhope nodded. “All this must’ve been terribly wearying for a young lady.”

Messalina tilted her head, still smiling with effort. Was the viscount implying that she was no longer young at seven and twenty? Of course there were many who considered a lady on the shelf if she wasn’t married by five and twenty. But they didn’t usually tell her so to her face. “I think we’ll stay.”

“How did you think to come here?” Lord Stanhope inquired suspiciously.

“We had a guide.” Messalina pointed to Tess, who had sat down by the door, patiently waiting for her master to emerge from the well house.

The arrival of the rescue party was announced by voices and tromping feet. Mr. Lovejoy emerged on the path, followed by two imposing footmen.

Lord Rookewoode greeted his friend with a muted, “Huzzah!”

Mr. Lovejoy grinned and bowed while Lord Stanhope sniffed at their drollery.

The footmen consulted with the gentlemen on the best way to break the padlock, and then a ginger-haired fellow stepped up to the door and took a mighty swing with his ax.

The padlock broke with a loud clang.

Immediately the door swung open to reveal a disheveled Freya and a pale but composed Christopher.

He gestured for Freya to exit the well house before him.

She stepped into the clearing and straightened, turning to Messalina. “Thank God you found us.”

“We didn’t do it,” Lucretia said cheerfully. “It was Tess.”

They all turned to where Christopher was on one knee over Tess, ruffling the delighted dog’s ears.

Beside Messalina, Freya gasped softly.

Christopher looked up sharply and then followed her gaze.

Messalina did also, peering into the well house. There, high on the wall opposite the door, was a carving, illuminated by the light shining in.

“Is that a W?” asked Lord Rookewoode, sounding intrigued.

“Oh no,” Lucretia said, shaking her head. She’d come to stand on Messalina’s other side. “It’s two V’s crossed together. Virgo Virginum.”

Everyone turned to stare at her, including Messalina.

“The Virgin Mary.” Lucretia blinked. “It’s a sign to drive out witches.”

“Witches?” Lord Lovejoy exclaimed.

While at the same time Mr. Lovejoy cried, “What rot!”

“Rot indeed,” Lord Rookewoode mused. He’d entered the small building to peer closer at the letters. “But this is freshly carved.” He turned and smirked at Lord Lovejoy, his face oddly highlighted in the dark well house. “Perhaps someone nearby has cause to fear witches.”

A witch’s mark.

Freya brooded over the matter on the trek back to the house. Was the mark a coincidence? Surely not. The Crow had warned her about a Dunkelder in attendance at the party. And now to find a witch’s mark?

No. No coincidence.

Usually a witch’s mark was simply a sort of good luck charm, meant to ward away any evil—or evil persons—from a building. This witch’s mark, however, felt like a warning. Had the Dunkelder discovered who she was? Had he followed her as she followed Harlowe, then snatched her and locked them both up in the well house?

Except the mark was already carved in the well house when they were locked in. And why involve a duke if the Dunkelder was only after her?

Damn it. Nothing made sense.

“Are you all right?” Messalina asked her.

“Yes.” Freya cleared her throat because that had sounded curt and she didn’t want to offend Messalina. “I’m sorry I missed our meeting last night.”

“I think, under the circumstances, that I can forgive you.” Messalina’s tone was very dry.

Freya felt her mouth quirk. “Shall we try again tonight?”

“Yes, please.” Messalina sent her a grateful glance.

Freya felt a near-giddy burst of warmth in her breast as she smiled back. “Your room?”

Messalina nodded, and for several minutes they walked companionably in silence before she said, “You must’ve been frightened to be locked in all night. How did it happen?”

Freya shrugged and, because she was tired and really couldn’t think of anything else, told the truth. “I was following Harlowe when I was grabbed and a neckcloth tied about my eyes. I was pushed into the well house. Then someone slammed the door closed behind us.”

Messalina raised both brows. “Did you have an assignation there with Christopher?”

“Erm, no.” Freya supposed she should feel insulted, but she was just weary. “He told me later that he’d received a note to meet Mr. Plimpton in the well house. I saw him leave the house and…” Actually, now that she thought of it, it was rather hard to explain. She ended rather lamely, “I just…followed him.”

“Ah,” Messalina said, sounding doubtful.

Freya had a sudden urge to blurt out the whole complicated matter to Messalina. Years and years she’d been alone, living under a false name. And although the Hollands were quite kind as employers, she couldn’t ever confide in them. Couldn’t really talk to anyone.

Once, she would’ve told Messalina everything.

She wanted that closeness back with all her heart.

Freya glanced at the other woman out of the corner of her eye and said softly, “Thank you for looking for us.”

Messalina shrugged. “We—Lucretia and I—didn’t know what we were about. We simply followed Tess. I’m afraid she’s the real heroine.”

Freya glanced at the dog trotting along beside Harlowe, her head lifted adoringly to him. “I wonder why she didn’t come find Harlowe last night? Was she locked in the house?”

“No,” Messalina said slowly. “She was tied up in the stables. The groom who was guarding her says he received a letter from Christopher, but that seems unlikely, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” Freya said, watching Harlowe’s back. She remembered the horrible story he’d told her the night before. Tess was always with him, wasn’t she? Almost like a talisman against the memories. “I don’t think he’d tie up Tess by herself. He’s very fond of her.”

“I can tell. She did not like being apart from him.”

“No.” Freya smiled at how at ease Harlowe looked now that he was with the dog.

Messalina lowered her voice, “Do you know who did this?”

Freya darted a quick look at her, thinking of the Dunkelder and who might want Harlowe scared away. “I might have an idea.”

“Who?”

Freya shook her head. “I think it better we discuss this tonight. Alone.”

The other woman raised her brows. “Very well.”

Lovejoy House finally came into view. Freya could see Lady Holland waiting by the garden with Regina and Arabella.

When Freya reached her, the older woman said nothing, but surprised Freya by folding her in her arms. “I was so worried for you, Miss Stewart.”

“Oh, Miss Stewart!” Regina exclaimed, and hugged her as well.

Arabella smiled shyly, taking her hands. “Thank God you are well.”

Freya nodded to them both, but she couldn’t help but notice that Lady Holland’s worried face hadn’t yet relaxed. In fact, her employer nodded significantly to someone over Freya’s head.

But when she turned, she couldn’t tell who had been the recipient of that silent communication.

The ladies ushered Freya indoors and up to her room, where she finally—thank goodness!—relieved her overextended bladder. A warm bath had been ordered, and she gratefully stripped off her clothes and bathed. Then she dressed, taking pains to make herself neat and assume once again the role of boring companion.

She winced.

After their discovery this morning she might never be entirely unnoticed again. Well, that couldn’t be changed, and perhaps it didn’t matter anymore. She was due to return to Dornoch in a little over a week.

Her heart sped as she realized how little time she had.

She gave herself a last inspection in the mirror on the dressing table and decided she could no longer avoid the rest of the party.

Taking a deep breath, she descended the stairs and found the salon, where it seemed the entire house party had gathered to discuss the morning’s events. Naturally everyone stopped talking and turned to stare at her when she entered.

Harlowe had been in discussion with Lady Holland. He looked up, meeting her eyes gravely. He, too, had refreshed himself. Tess was by his side, and he looked every inch the duke in a severe black suit and snowy neckcloth that made his blue eyes blaze.

For some reason the sight of him sent a tremor down her frame. For the first time in five years she rather wished she were wearing something fit for her true station instead of a dowdy companion’s dress.

Silly! she chided herself. She was a Wise Woman, and her mission was far more important than silk dresses.

Freya lifted her chin and crossed the room, ignoring all the other gazes on her, aware only that Harlowe watched her the entire time.

He stood and bowed as she neared, taking her hand in his.

She would not let her fingers tremble at a simple touch.

“Miss Stewart,” he greeted her. “If you don’t mind, I would like a private word with you.”

Freya frowned. They’d spent the night together—mostly talking, true, but still. What did he need to say now—and so formally?

But she nodded and followed him into a small sitting room across the hall.

“Please,” he said, indicating a chair.

She raised her eyebrows but sat.

“I think you must know why I’ve asked to speak to you,” he began, his blue eyes intent and serious.

She interrupted, her nerves frayed after the morning and after having run the gauntlet in the salon. “Actually, I don’t.”

He stopped and stared at her.

Then he crossed to her and gravely went down on one knee before her. “Freya de Moray, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”