Читать книгу Enchanted in Regency Society: Wicked Rake, Defiant Mistress / The Gamekeeper's Lady - Ann Lethbridge - Страница 14

Eleanor closed the door the moment the gig drove away. She busied herself preparing supper, trying not to think about the path she’d chosen and what it meant for her future.

He’d given her a beautiful day in idyllic surroundings and it hadn’t been too hard to imagine herself spending the rest of her life with him. He was thoughtful, charming and fun. Most of all, when he made love to her, she forgot his reputation as a rake, forgot the duty she owed to her family, forgot she was ruined. It wouldn’t matter how good he was to her, he could never marry her now.

Nor could anyone else.

And until their bargain was over, she must not let him steal her heart.

That foolish organ gave a funny little skip, a happy little hop in her chest. Too late, apparently.

She jabbed the fork into a slice of bread. What a fool. Each time she thought about bidding him goodbye, she cried. If she didn’t take care she’d turn into a permanent watering pot. She’d always despised lachrymose females who complained about their lot in life. She’d made her bed and she’d lie on it, cheerfully, and think about the future when it arrived.

If she had a future. Drat it, there she went again.

She stared at the toast and jam she’d put on the plate, but there was no room in her stomach for food. Tea. She needed a nice cup of tea. In bed. And a book. She put the kettle on and changed into her nightdress and robe.

Her front door creaked open. Her spirits soared. Garrick had returned. She ran to greet him.

It wasn’t Garrick outlined in the doorway, but a stranger. Large and threatening, with a wind-reddened face and heavy black brows above a red-veined, bulbous nose, he barged over the threshold. Oh, God. She must have forgotten to throw the bolt.

She backed away, her mouth dry and her heart beating loudly. While not tall, he was heavyset and could overpower her in an instant. Her stomach lurched as small black eyes ran down her body, eyebrows lifting. The worst thing about him was his grin, loose wet lips drawing back over broken yellow teeth beneath a greasy black moustache.

‘Get out.’ Her voice shook. She clasped her hands together, seeking strength. ‘You have no right to be in here.’

‘Now, now, my lady, don’t get excited, I’ve come with a message from his lordship.’

‘The Marquess of Beauworth?’

‘The very same.’

Something jarred about his words. She gasped. He had called her my lady. Garrick knew? Her rapidly beating heart clogged her throat. She swallowed. ‘Get out.’

He made no move.

She glanced around for a weapon. If only she had not left her sword at the barn.

The man closed the door with his heel, following step by step as she backed away. She daren’t take her gaze from his face in case he attacked.

A weapon. She needed something heavy. She sidled into the bedroom, working her way to the brass candlestick on the night table. Breathing steadily, clutching fast to her courage, she backed around the bed. The table nudged her back. Her fingers fumbled behind her and found cool metal.

She held up her other hand in a warning. ‘No closer.’

He reached into his pocket. He must have a pistol or a knife. She had to act.

She grasped the candlestick firmly, hefting it in her hand where he could see it. ‘Stay back or I will put a dint in your face so large your mother will never recognise you.’

His hand emerged with a small brown bottle. He laughed, an evil, sneering sound. ‘Them’s fighting words, my lady.’ The sound of the front door opening sent a chill down her spine.

‘Where the hell are you?’ a male voice called.

More of them. Bile rose in her throat.

‘In here, Sarg.’

She might be able to deal with one, but two? Dear God, what did they want? Her chest tightened, making it hard to breathe. ‘There is money in the chest under the bed,’ she croaked.

‘I’ll keep that in mind,’ bulbous nose said. ‘Later.’

The chill down her back turned to ice. She launched the candlestick at his head.

He knocked it aside with his arm. ‘Ouch,’ he bellowed. ‘You little bitch!’

He lunged at her. She ducked under his arm. He caught a handful of her hair. Pain shot through her scalp. Eyes blurring, she twisted in his grip. Lashed at his groin with her bare foot and hit his thigh. She stumbled. He yanked her back by her hair. More pain. Her eyes streamed. She flailed at his face with her nails.

Arms grabbed her from behind, around her throat and waist. A belt buckle jammed into her back. The second man. Panic chilled her to the bone.

‘I told you to wait.’ His voice in her ear was low and angry. ‘Where’s the bottle, Caleb?’

‘’Ere, Sarg.’

A grinning Caleb held the small brown bottle to her lips. She recognised the smell. Laudanum. She clamped her mouth shut. The man behind pinched her nostrils. Hard. Painfully hard, while Caleb pressed the bottle against her lips. The fingers around her throat tightened. Arms crushed her ribs. Her lungs burned. Her head swam. Air. She needed air.

One quick breath. Turning her face, she opened her mouth. A bitter-tasting liquid flooded in. She swallowed. Managed a breath.

‘More,’ Sarg said.

More liquid. She struggled blindly. Her movements became weaker. Dizzy, she felt her limbs loosen. The triumphant leer of the man Caleb faded.

The cottage had an air of desolation. An emptiness. Garrick sensed it the moment he entered and still he called out, ‘Ellie?’ Silence.

He placed her sword and scabbard gently on the pine table. He’d thought she might want to keep it. He wandered into the bedroom, just to be sure. The bed was stripped, the clothes’ press empty. She’d taken everything.

A hollow, sick feeling hit the pit of his stomach. Knowing how unhappy she was, he’d planned to send her home, rehearsed what he would say over and over, all the while hoping she might want to stay.

It was better this way. She’d gone of her own accord. Less painful. Then why did his chest ache? A small scrap of white poked out from under the bed and he picked it up. A minute square of lawn edged in fine lace. He pressed it to his nose. It smelled clean, fresh with traces of vanilla. Ellie. It was the only thing left. No note. Nothing to show she had ever lived here. He stuffed the handkerchief into his coat pocket and went back to the kitchen.

Barely conscious of his actions, he pulled a bottle of brandy and a tumbler from the dresser and set them on the table. He fought his bitter disappointment. Why not say goodbye? Had she found him so lacking?

He pulled out the plain ladder-back chair, turned its back against the scrubbed table and sat astride. Chin resting on his sleeve, he glared at the honey-coloured table top, as if it could provide an answer. Had she somehow seen the evil in him? She didn’t lack for courage, but it was enough to send anyone running off into the night.

Bloody hell. Why couldn’t he accept she loved Castlefield instead of trying to place the blame elsewhere? An urgent need to drink one glass after another and dull the pain tightened his gut. He reached for the bottle, astonished at the way his hand shook as he splashed liquid oblivion into the glass and on to the table. The pungent aroma stung the back of his throat, brought tears to his eyes. Oh, yes. Fool yourself about this, too. He smiled wryly. Tomorrow reality would stare him in the face, the way it did every day. He ought to be glad she’d gone, glad she’d never look at him in horror.

He buried his head in the crook of his arm. Rage, despair, roiling emotions he couldn’t name, made his skin feel too tight, as if he might burst like an over-filled water-skin. With a muffled roar, he rose and lobbed the glass into the fireplace. It shattered with the sound of hail on a tile roof. Then silence. Brandy fumes hung in the air like the stink of an inn on a Saturday night.

What the hell good had that done, except waste perfectly good brandy? He picked up the bottle to put it away. The front door slammed back against the wall. Ellie?

Garrick turned, his heart beating hopefully against his ribs. Without warning, a blond, red-coated soldier lurched across the room and grabbed at his throat. Choking, he tore at the man’s fingers.

‘Where is she, you goddamned thrice-misbegotten whoreson?’ the man yelled.

Even as his vision blackened around the edges, Garrick knew this man. ‘Hadley?’ His enemy.

A red wash coated his vision, rage running like liquid fire through his veins. He embraced it. Used its strength. He brought his arms up and around. Broke the other man’s hold, shoved him backwards and raised his fists, longing to beat the furious face to a pulp.

‘Not so fast, my lord.’ The muzzle of a rifle pressed coldly against the back of Garrick’s neck.

With his back to the door, Garrick had not seen the man enter, but he recognised the deep rumbling voice. He released his breath in a long, shuddering sigh, gaining control, clearing the red mists from his sight, tamping down the killing rage. ‘Well, if it isn’t Ben.’

‘No, my lord. Martin Brown, at your service. Put up your weapons.’

Martin Brown, the relative she’d spoken of, was also Ben the highwayman? Merde. How many more lies had she told him?

Garrick lowered his fists.

Martin Brown withdrew his rifle and held it ready across his chest.

Hadley fixed his hard grey gaze on Garrick and repeated his question. ‘Where is she?’

What the hell was going on? What did this man have to do with Ellie? No. This must be about some other woman. He racked his brain for possible contenders, women he’d forgotten, while he kept his face a blank slate. ‘What are you doing here?’

Anger boiled up again, at Ellie, at himself, at this man from his past. He curled his lip and glanced down at the man’s twisted right leg. ‘Come for another beating, Hadley?’ He shouldn’t have said that. Hell, he’d always denied being Hadley’s night-time attacker.

The other man reddened. ‘Castlefield now.’

Garrick reeled. The breath left his body as if he’d been struck in the kidneys. This was Castlefield? ‘But—’

‘Haven’t you done enough, you bastard? Did you have to take your revenge out on my sister?’

For a long moment Garrick’s mind stuck on the word revenge, the old issue between them, the fight over a woman and the accusations hanging over him at school. The reason for Castlefield’s halting gait. The second occasion he’d lost control and couldn’t remember.

Finally, the word ‘sister’ forced its way to the surface. The floor beneath his feet seemed to tilt. ‘Ellie is your sister?’

‘Lady Eleanor Hadley, to you. My twin.’

His twin sister? He could only stare in stunned silence. Finally he found a shred of voice. ‘She left.’ His mind scrambled to make sense of what his ears were hearing. ‘She must have gone home.’

Martin Brown shook his head. ‘The bailiffs are gone, but no sign of her ladyship.’

A sense of dread filled his stomach. ‘Then she went to her sister.’ He refused to think about where else she might have gone.

‘Damn you, Beauworth!’ Castlefield choked out. ‘If I find that one hair of her head has been harmed, I shall hold you fully responsible.’ He drew his sword.

‘Put up, my lord,’ Martin Brown said sternly, his ruddy face grim. This time his rifle was pointed at the Earl. ‘This was all her own doing. I did my best to stop her and when I could not, I did my best to protect her.’ He nodded at Garrick. ‘He became involved when we held up his coach and he followed us. She said she would set him free and go to Scotland.’ He flushed. ‘I had a feeling there was more to it. That was why I waited for your ship in Portsmouth. But if she’s gone, she’s gone to your aunt, or to her friend in Scotland. We should look for her there.’

Oh God, Ellie. What were you doing? He stared at her enraged brother. No wonder she’d longed for him to come home. The bastard had left her to face everything alone. Well, now he’d know the truth, because he wasn’t fit to take care of her.

Garrick crossed his arms across his chest and stared down his nose at the other man. ‘You were right to worry, Martin. She became my mistress to retrieve the mortgage and pay his debts.’ He curled his lip as the other man squirmed. ‘Not once did she tell me the truth.’

Horror etched on his features, Castlefield limped to the sofa and collapsed. He covered his face with his hands. ‘Eleanor,’ he moaned. ‘Why?’

A wave of remorse washed away Garrick’s anger. ‘I’m sorry you had to find out this way, but you have only yourself to blame.’

Martin Brown assisted his young master to rise. ‘Come, my lord, we have to find her and bring her home.’

Castlefield glared at Garrick. ‘You despicable cur, taking advantage of a woman. My sister is worth two of you.’

What had he done? She’d been trying to save her brother, and Garrick had taken full advantage of the circumstances. Dear God. He’d ruined a noblewoman, taken her virtue. Were there no depths to which he would not sink? If only she’d told him who she was. Let him help her. Nom d’un nom. She’d lied rather than give him the chance to help because she didn’t trust him.

He had to make it right. Offer her his name. It was all he could do. What he wanted to do. He felt a surge of hope. ‘I will marry her, of course.’ His voice sounded thick and hoarse.

In the doorway, Castlefield swung back around, granite eyes blazing, his pale skin flushed. ‘Do you think I’d let her marry a cur like you?’

Cringing inside, Garrick somehow managed to keep his voice calm. ‘It will be up to Ellie to decide.’

‘Will it?’ Castlefield’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘When I tell her what you did to me, you know how she will answer. Eleanor will do my bidding in this. Say one thing to a soul about my sister and I swear I will kill you. Come near my family again and you will die.’

The bitterness in his voice rent Garrick’s sympathy to shreds. ‘Next time you find yourself in debt, don’t leave your sister to rescue you.’

‘Damn you to hell, Beauworth!’ Castlefield shouted, following Martin Brown out of the door and slamming it shut.

Hell looked inviting. Garrick sank on to the sofa. What a bloody mess. How could he not have seen what she was? Hell! He’d known she had secrets, but how could he have guessed she was a noblewoman? Liar. The signs had all been there—her conversation, her bearing, even her modesty and innocence. The selfish bastard in him hadn’t wanted to see. He’d wanted the rogue, the woman in the mask, the woman he could not hurt.

He scrubbed his palm over his chin. She had no choice but to take his name. Castlefield would come to his senses, once he got over his anger. His heart lifted. In a way, it wasn’t so bad.

‘She’s waking.’ Shuffling footsteps crossed the room.

Eleanor turned her head towards the coarse female voice. Light sliced pain through her temples and she tried to swallow what felt like sand in her throat. The room spun like a child’s top. Oh God, she was going to be sick. A basin appeared before her as if by magic. She vomited. Again and again.

Exhausted, she lay back, eyes shut. What was wrong with her? She’d never felt so ill in her life. Then she remembered. They’d dosed her with laudanum. After a few moments, she opened her eyes again and peered through a watery blur at four bare stone walls, a grimy window and flagstone floor. Where was she?

She struggled to rise. A dumpy old crone in black shoved her back against the pillow.

‘Here, lovey,’ the woman said. ‘Drink. It’ll ’ave you right as rain, it will.’

Feeling a glass against her lips, she gulped at the liquid. Bitter. Disgusting. Oh, no, more laudanum. ‘Why are you doing this to me?’

‘Rest, missie.’

‘How long will she sleep?’ A man’s voice, low and harsh from across the room. Eleanor tried to raise her head to see. Too heavy. Too tired.

‘A few hours.’

‘Good. Keep the door locked. Caleb will keep watch.’

Caleb. A rush of fear engulfed her as she remembered the man’s ugly face, the last person she’d seen before darkness sucked her down.

The next time she opened her eyes, she was alone. She felt better, stronger. The musty-smelling room remained steady. A chamber with crumbling plaster, and empty except for the cot on which she lay. A spyhole pierced the blackened wood door. Had they watched her sleep? She shivered. A blanket, rough to the touch, covered her nightgown and robe. Her skin crawled at the thought of those men with their hands on her in such flimsy attire.

Nausea rose in her throat. If she was sick, they would hear her. She swallowed.

‘Is she awake?’ Caleb’s voice. Outside the door. A voice of nightmares. A voice she’d heard in vague dreams of being carried and shoved into a vehicle. Shuddering, she closed her eyes and lay still. She wasn’t ready to face them. Not yet. Not until she felt stronger.

‘Nah,’ the woman replied, obviously peering through the hole in the door.

‘Sarg will be back soon.’

‘Aye. I’ll make tea and wake her. He’ll want her ready.’

Ready for what? There were noises, crockery rattling and footsteps. Eleanor imagined the woman moving around in the other room. The scraping of a chair being pushed back and heavier footfalls made her tense. Careful not to move, Eleanor opened her eyes a fraction.

‘She’s awake,’ Caleb said. ‘I know it.’

‘Get away from there, you big lummox. You leave her to me, just like Sarg said. Get yourself back on guard or he’ll have your guts for garters.’

‘I’ve got a score to settle with the bitch for my arm,’ Caleb growled. He clumped away and a door closed with a bang.

Barely clothed and a prisoner at their mercy. Her body trembled. Her heart raced. She couldn’t breathe. They were going to kill her. She was going to die here in this horrid little hovel.

Ellie, calm down. Father’s voice stilled her panic. Remember what he used to say? The reason many soldiers died was because they froze in fear and stopped thinking. Pull yourself together and you will be all right.

She hauled in a deep breath. Then another. Her heartbeat slowed. Her breathing evened out. She forced herself to listen to the sounds from the other room and was sitting up when the key turned in the lock and the woman entered with a tray.

‘Where am I?’ Eleanor said, looking down her nose at her female jailor. ‘Who are you? What do you want with me?’

The woman set the tray on end of the bed and pulled her grey woollen shawl tight around her hunched shoulders. She looked like any woman you might see on the street in a village—black gown, grey hair scraped back, wisps escaping around her lined suntanned face. ‘You’ll get your answers soon enough, my lady. Now, drink your tea and eat something. You’ll feel better.’

More drugs? Eleanor eyed the tray askance. Yet her stomach felt uncomfortably hollow. How long since she had eaten? ‘What is the time?’

‘Getting on for noon. You slept all day yesterday.’

She’d lost a whole day? Garrick would be worried. But how would he find her? ‘You can’t keep me here. The Marquess of Beauworth expects to find me at home.’

‘Does he now?’ The woman’s smile was grim, but she didn’t seem perturbed. ‘Eat. Or go hungry.’ She marched out and locked the door behind her.

Eleanor glanced at the tray. She needed strength for whatever they had in store for her, but not more laudanum. She carefully smelled the bread and the tea. Nothing obvious. Nor did she taste anything odd. She ate and drank her fill.

Feeling stronger, she strolled around her prison. The floor was cold and gritty under her bare feet, the air smelled of mould. Daylight struggled though a small window hung with dusty cobwebs high above her head. To see out, she would need to pull the cot beneath it and battle the spiders. She eyed the corners of the room. No doubt the horrid beasts lurked there, too. She shuddered and swallowed the urge to beg.