Читать книгу The Duke's Suspicion - Susanna Craig - Страница 11

Chapter 2

Half awake, Erica bolted upright. Pain stabbed through her neck and down her back, driving away her drowsiness. Where—? Why—? Her eyes fell on the sleeping form of Mr. Laurens, slumped in his chair, chin resting against his chest.

Oh.

Sunlight poured in through the cracks around the shutter, illuminating the dingy room, with its cracked plaster walls and broken furnishings. It was a wonder the cottage hadn’t collapsed around them while they slept. The light picked out the features of Mr. Laurens’s face, too, considerably less timeworn than their surroundings. Why, he wasn’t much older than she, certainly not thirty. His tawny hair caught the sun, while a day’s growth of darker beard shadowed his square jaw. Not a bad-looking face, but she refused to think of him as handsome. No one who took such obvious delight in giving orders could ever be appealing to her.

Silently, she stretched her stiff muscles—another unladylike habit for which her mother frequently chided her—and let his greatcoat slide off her shoulders as she picked up her journal and rose. If the storm was over and the sun was shining, then she must make her way, either back to the village or on toward Windermere, and hope her sister never asked where she had spent the night.

She managed to lift the door latch without rattling it. This was hardly the first morning she had arisen early and been eager to get out of doors. Leather hinges creaked and the bottom of the door dragged through the groove it had worn into the dirt floor. A quick glance over her shoulder confirmed that Mr. Laurens slept on, however. A little wider, and she could slip through. She’d just snatch her pelisse from the hook, and—

“Miss Burke?”

“A Thiarna Dia!”

Molly had taught her the oath. Not deliberately, of course. Erica had managed to pick it up after years of startling the family’s housemaid in the kitchen. And on the stairs. And, on one particularly memorable occasion, at the back door, as Erica was sneaking in from an early morning stroll and Molly was stepping out to empty the slops.

“You cannot be thinking of leaving, Miss Burke?”

She could hear an edge of annoyance in his voice. The same voice that yesterday had snapped, “What in God’s name are you doing?” Well, he might have made a plan for when and how she’d leave this cottage, but she had never agreed to wait around for his help or protection. She didn’t need either one.

Determinedly, she turned back to tell him so. And discovered him standing just inches away now, one hand on the partially open door, blocking her way. Her pulse quickened. Did he mean to keep her prisoner? What would she do if he slammed the door shut and latched it?

Instead, he swung it wide, ducked under the lintel, and stood with his arms crossed behind his back, filling the opening. “Just as I feared.”

Curiosity got the better of her, though she was forced to peer around his shoulder to satisfy it. The sight that greeted her eyes was breathtaking. In the way a swift blow to the stomach might take one’s breath away.

The cottage had been built on a little rise. If it had not, they might have been standing ankle-deep in water. Ponds had formed in every hollow and dip. The roadway on which she had intended to walk to Windermere was now a river of mud. Wind had stripped the autumn leaves from the trees. They floated over the ground in spills of tarnished gold and blood red, leaving bare, wintry branches to scratch at the sky like ghostly hands. And though the sun shone down mercilessly on this scene of devastation, on the western horizon, dark clouds were gathering. More rain was on its way.

“Still determined to strike out on your own this fine morning?” He did not glance her way as he spoke.

“I—”

Oh, why hadn’t she bothered to learn a few more Irish curses? She could’ve used them now, for this was a fine mess. For once, it seemed unlikely her sister would catch her in it, but she could not take consolation in the thought. What if Cami had discovered her missing, turned back to find her, and been trapped—or worse—by the storm and its aftermath?

“A Thiarna Dia.”

This time, the words took the form of a whispered prayer.

“Well,” said Mr. Laurens, “I can see just one solution.”

“And what would that be?” She could see only water.

He turned from the door. Reflexively, she stepped out of his way, though he did not seem to notice. He moved as though he was used to people clearing a path before him. She fought a childish impulse to stretch out one toe and trip him.

“I have a house not three miles east as the crow flies,” he said. “We can reach it before that storm cloud does, if we make haste.”

Her mind bounded like a hare, chased from one question to the next. How could they travel safely through all that water? But if they stayed put, with no food and no way to build a fire, how long could they survive?

And if his own home stood so near, what had possessed him to stop here?

The last, of course, could not be asked. Even she understood that. They were, after all, almost perfect strangers. Still, curiosity itched at her, a rash she was desperate to scratch—worse, even, than the day she’d thrust an ungloved hand into a patch of leaves and found stinging nettles hiding beneath.

Fortunately, before the question could form on her lips, he strode across the room to collect his greatcoat. “My horse is stabled in the lean-to at the back of the cottage. You’ll ride. I’ll lead her, so as to guide her through the worst dangers. If we stick to the higher ridges, we should reach Hawesdale by midday.”

Her fingers closed once more on her pelisse. “Hawesdale? Is that the name of the town from which you hail? Perhaps there’s an inn there where I can wait for the weather to turn. I would not wish to—”

“Hawesdale is the name of the house. Hawesdale Chase.” He shrugged into his greatcoat. “No inn, I’m afraid. Not even much of a village. You’ll have to stay with me.”

She tried to take some comfort in the fact that he sounded no more pleased by the prospect than she felt. “You are very generous, I’m sure. But I couldn’t possibly.” In twenty-three years, she had broken almost every rule of ladylike behavior her mother had laid down. Now, she’d spent the night with a gentleman, unchaperoned. Under duress, it was true. Perhaps that made it a forgivable offense. But she dared not continue in that error, just in case.

She’d never worried over her reputation, and she wasn’t worried about it now. She only knew that crossing certain lines would ensure she was packed home to Dublin and never allowed to leave the house again. And no one had ever become a highly regarded botanist by sitting in a drawing room, drinking tea and embroidering cushions. For more reasons than one.

Then again… One glance took in the humble cottage and its furnishings. No, she didn’t relish the possibility of staying here alone. “Unless, of course, you happen to have, ah, a sister at home?” The presence of another lady would lend sufficient respectability, surely. “Or…or a wife?”

Something about the question made his lips twitch, and she could not decide whether it was with humor. “I do have a sister at home, as it happens,” he said as he gathered his horse’s tack from the corner of the room and picked up a tall beaver hat she had not noticed before. He made no attempt to settle it on his head; its crown would have brushed plaster from the crumbling ceiling. “And a mother—my stepmother, to be precise. But no,” he added as he ducked once more through the door. “I do not have a wife.”

Her body greeted his words with an unexpected tingle of awareness that traveled down her spine and through her limbs, into the very center of her being. Why on earth should she care whether or not he was married? And yet, some parts of her seemed very interested in the information.

Or perhaps she’d taken a chill. The cottage was very damp. Unhealthy, even.

Tugging her wrinkled pelisse over her equally wrinkled dress and swiping a tangle of hair from her eyes, she followed him out the door.

* * * *

To Tristan’s relief, the lean-to stable had weathered the storm. Lady Jane Grey, a steady dapple-gray mare he’d purchased for the journey, pricked her ears forward at the sound of their approach. Last night, he’d emptied the manger of musty straw and scattered it on the stable floor. As he led her out this morning, he could see the bedding was still dry. Lady Jane might well have passed a more comfortable night than he had.

“Do you ride, Miss Burke?” Even without turning, he knew she stood no more than a step away. He had been listening as she squelched through the mud behind him.

“Yes.”

“Very good.” A shudder passed along Lady Jane’s withers as he laid the damp saddle cloth on her back. He ran a hand down her neck to steady her. “Though we haven’t the proper tack for a lady, I’m afraid.”

Miss Burke stepped forward to stroke the soft velvet of the horse’s nose. “I’ll manage if she can.”

Would she sit astride? A certain sparkle in her honey brown eyes convinced him she was no stranger to it. He had a sudden vision of her with her skirts hiked to her knees, showing off well-turned calves to match the shapely figure he’d glimpsed beneath her rain-soaked dress last night.

When he could no longer pretend to busy himself with cinching the girth, he turned back to Erica and held out one hand. With obvious reluctance, she laid ice cold fingers across his palm. His first impulse was to cover them with his other hand, to chafe some warmth into them. Instead he shook his head. “Your book first, please. I’ll stow it in the saddlebag. You’ll want both hands free.”

“Oh.” She snatched her fingers back. “Of course.”

After tucking her book safely among his things, he laced his fingers to form a step and hoisted her into the saddle. One hand gripped his shoulder and was quickly gone. To his relief—certainly not to his disappointment—she hooked her right knee around the pommel rather than throwing that leg over Lady Jane’s back. He saw no more than one muddy ankle boot before her skirts swept into place and fully hid both legs from view once more.

She took up the reins just as he gripped them beneath Lady Jane’s chin, at the base of the bridle. The horse tossed her head to express her displeasure at their tug-of-war.

“It seems she knows who’s really in charge,” Erica said.

Did her voice always carry that mischievous note? Tristan leveled a look over his shoulder, one that had quelled more than a few impudent junior officers.

It had no visible effect on her, however.

“I am in charge, Miss Burke,” he said then. “Make no mistake about that.” After nearly ten years as an officer, command came naturally to him. “Now, the reins, if you please—or frankly, even if you don’t please. Because I don’t fancy waiting about for those clouds.” He jerked his chin in the direction of the steadily darkening western sky.

Whether it was his words or the weather that persuaded her, he could not be certain. But with a toss of her own head, she surrendered the reins and contented herself with two fistfuls of Lady Jane’s mane.

Well, she didn’t lack spirit, he’d give her that. He had always valued spirit and enthusiasm in the men he had commanded. Perhaps Miss Burke’s unconventional streak would prove to be an asset.

One must always have hope.

The ground was slick, spongy in some places and rocky in others. The ridge of higher ground that ran between the cottage and Hawesdale Chase appeared unbroken from a distance. In reality, however, it was made up of many small hillocks and an equal number of little valleys. Both his boots and Lady Jane’s hooves fought for purchase. Every step was a gamble.

On one particularly sharp descent, the horse locked her forelegs and refused to take another step. With a firm grip on the reins, he stepped ahead to show her it was safe. “Forward, Lady Jane.” The mare gave no sign of having heard.

Erica shifted slightly in the saddle, leaned over Lady Jane’s neck, and whispered in her ears, which twitched forward and back as she took in the words. Then, to Tristan’s amazement, the horse took three wary steps down the embankment and followed him through a newly formed stream and up the next hill.

“What did you say to her?” he asked when they were safely on higher ground.

“A lady never tells, Mr. Laurens.”

“I thought you weren’t a lady, Miss Burke,” he teased.

Her spine stiffened. “I was referring to the horse.”

Forcing a laugh, he took one stride forward. Somehow, however, his boot never met the ground. Instead, his other leg slid from beneath him and he found himself on his arse in the mud, skidding down the slope. Miss Burke, damn her, had the foresight to twitch the reins from his grasp so that Lady Jane did not come tumbling down after like some awful parody of a child’s nursery rhyme. And to add insult to injury—for the slope was dotted with sharp rocks—when he splashed to a halt in the ditch at the bottom, his hat fell off and was swept away on the water.

“Mr. Laurens!” There was laughter in her voice, he felt sure of it. “Are you harmed?”

“Don’t—”

—dismount.

But the order had not left his lips in time. She was already on the ground. Her boots soon found the same slick spot, and faster than he could shout or she could scream, she had slid and tumbled her way down and nearly landed in his lap.

Alas, some part of him whispered devilishly, not nearly enough.

Such wayward thoughts ought to have scattered when she began to laugh. That outlandish sound ought not to have made her more attractive yet. A proper lady, at least those among his acquaintance, would have been either frightened or mortified by their predicament.

For her part, Lady Jane gave a snort and began to amble away. He watched the horse go. “What’s that phrase of yours, Miss Burke?”

A frown of incomprehension notched her brow. “Do you mean A Thiarna Dia?” Her freckles stood out dark against the sudden rush of pink that streaked across her cheeks. “But it’s…well, it’s blasphemous, you know.”

As he hoisted himself to his feet, he felt cold mud slither beneath his clothes and settle into every crack and crevice. “Not blasphemous enough.”

Though he held out a hand to help her rise, she sprang up unaided, unfazed by the fall. With a flick of one wrist, she shook out her skirts, spattering his ruined boots with more mud. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t think before I—” Her expression turned rueful. “My sister would say I never do.”

For a moment, the smile slipped from her face and she stared past his shoulder. Not with longing, as one does when imagining a place of respite at the end of a journey. But steeling herself against reproach, as if she had been chastised often and expected to be again.

He was a soldier. He’d had intimate acquaintance with dirt. And cold. And aches in places well-bred people did not mention. “What possible difference could a little more mud make, Miss Burke?” he said, trying to reassure her. Never mind that this was not the appearance he had planned to make at his homecoming.

“Well, the rain will likely wash some of it off,” she said, dispelling her momentary despair with a shrug, tipping her face toward the sky. The morning sun had given way to first to clouds, then to heavy mist, which had shifted over the last quarter hour to a steady drizzle. When she met his gaze once more, she had tacked her usual stubborn expression back in place.

Now, however, he could guess that something else hid just beneath the surface. Something softer and less sure. Experimentally, he held out an arm, expecting her once more to refuse his help. But after a moment’s hesitation, she threaded her hand lightly around his elbow.

When they reached Lady Jane, she caught the reins in her other hand and kept walking. Before he could offer to help her back into the saddle, she said, “It’s better this way, don’t you think?”

“Safer, yes.” No sense in risking another fall, for either horse or rider.

Walking arm in arm was not without risk, however. Though the pressure of her hand was slight, he could feel himself being drawn ever so slightly off his usual course nevertheless. He had always been the straight arrow, the plumb line. But from the moment this woman had been blown into his life, she’d been tugging him off-balance.

Determined to regain his center, he squared his shoulders and lengthened his stride. He was an army officer. For God’s sake, he was a duke! Neither wind, nor rain, nor a copper-haired sprite would stay him from his duty.

“Miss Burke, I think it’s time I explained—”

“Please tell me that’s Hawesdale Chase.” Though they spoke at the same time, he heard the weariness in her voice.

Below them, nestled in a grove of poplars, stood a red brick house with tall, narrow windows and a chimney at either end, from which ribbons of smoke unfurled like the faintest traces of pencil sketched against a slate sky. A respectable manor by almost any standard, and compared to the cottage in which they had sheltered, a mansion.

He drew a deep breath. It was not that he hesitated to speak the truth, but rather that the truth was complicated. “In the time of the Tudor kings, that was Hawesdale Chase, yes. Intended as an autumnal retreat. A hunting lodge, as the name implies. But when the estate passed from that family, another house was built and claimed the name.”

“Your house. Is it near?”

“Not quite half a mile away. This one now serves as its gatehouse.”

“Gatehouse?” She tipped her gaze upward but did not meet his eyes. “Then Hawesdale Chase must be quite large…”

“See for yourself.”

He directed her attention past the gatehouse to the denser woodland behind it, divided from them by what was, on any ordinary day, a picturesque winding stream. The ground was thick with freshly fallen foliage. Only a few leaves now remained to filter the view. Above the bare branches, the rolling landscape rose to grander heights, not quite mountains. Nestled at the foot of those rugged hills stood a sprawling mansion, the fever dream of some Jacobean architect whose love of pierced work, scrolls, and other ornamentation had known no bounds. The most charitable compliment Tristan had ever been able to pay the house was that it was almost symmetrical.

Still, wreathed in mist and shadow, it was a striking sight, and Miss Burke seemed to be forcibly struck by it.

“I—I don’t… Are you—?” She looked from Hawesdale to him and back again, nostrils flaring. “Are you the…the steward or…or the housekeeper’s son, or—?”

“I’m afraid not, Miss Burke.” The wry smile that curved his lips was only partly in response to her reaction.

Mostly, he was remembering the day he had overheard Cook telling one of the new kitchen maids what seemed to be common knowledge among the staff: “Her Grace, God rest ’er, were that desperate to give His Grace another son. A spare, so to speak. When the years rolled by with no babe in sight, folks did say she took comfort in the arms of another man…” At those words Cook’s smoke-roughened voice had dropped to a whisper, and Tristan had had to hold his breath to hear the rest. “’Tis not for me to say, o’ course. But there’s little enough of the old duke in Lord Tris, to be sure. An’ the head gardener did leave his post thereafter…”

Whether the rumor that the late duchess had consorted with the gardener was true, and whether the second son of the Duke of Raynham in fact belonged to another man, only his mother could have told him for certain, and she had died too soon after his birth to tell him anything. His brother Percy, eleven years his senior, had been unapproachable on matters of far less import; Tristan could never bring to himself to ask about sordid gossip.

After that day, he had taken the only prudent course. He had walled up every weakness he imagined inimical to the son of a duke. He had refused to indulge in behaviors that might invite speculation. And he had followed rules, rather than breaking them, as boys—and men, and even, it seemed, some women—were wont to do.

Ultimately, he had consoled himself with the knowledge that, if the story had been true, the man who called himself his father surely would have disowned him, or at least betrayed his disdain in some word or deed. Instead, he’d willingly granted Tristan’s request to purchase him an officer’s commission. He and Tristan were alike in neither appearance nor temperament, it was true. But really, what did it matter? Tristan was not next in line for the dukedom.

Until he was.

“That is your house?” Erica demanded, bringing him back to the present moment. “And I suppose all this”—she gestured feebly with her free hand toward the woods and the hills—“is also…yours?”

“Yes. Every step we’ve taken today has been on my land.”

Her hand slid from his sleeve. “You mean…the cottage—?”

“Once housed the estate’s head gardener.”

“Then you are—you’re a—”

“A duke.” He felt strangely as if he ought to bow when he said it, as one did when making a proper introduction. And he might have, if not for the mud and the rain and the fact that they had already spent a night in one another’s company. “Raynham, for my sins.”

If her hands had not already been white with cold, her fierce grip on Lady Jane’s reins would have stripped the color from her knuckles. “You misunderstand me, Your Grace.” Her amber eyes swept boldly over him. “I was going to say, you are a coward.”