How a Lady Weds a Rogue (13 page)

She reached past his shoulder. “What do you do when you haven’t a third hand to do this for you?”

“On those occasions I do not break into houses, of course.” The door remained fast. “It is bolted from within.” He released the handle.

Her teeth clacked and she gripped her sodden cloak tighter about her. “What will we do now?”

“Try the back door. Remain here, if you will.” He moved down the steps and around the rosebushes, Ramses trailing after.

In minutes a clunking sound came from within and upon heavy hinges the door swung open. Mr. Yale stepped back and bowed.

“Welcome to Abbaty Fran Ddu, ladies.”

She stepped into the foyer, dragging off her sodden bonnet. It was a modest space and well appointed with dark wooden paneling, a graceful iron chandelier, and a tiled floor. The scent of dust was heavy upon the still air, but no mold.

“It is so modern. And wonderfully dry. I feel badly dragging in all our rain.”

“As nice a place as I’ve seen, for all it being hid away in a valley.” Mrs. Polley looked shrewdly about.

“How do you know the name of this house, Mr. Yale?”

He took Mrs. Polley’s coat and her cloak, and gestured toward a row of servants’ bells above an open doorway. Beside the bells hung an embroidered frame with the words
ABBATY FRAN DDU
picked out delicately in green and blue silk.

“Owen will bring in the luggage then light a fire. I suspect there is a parlor above.” He motioned toward a staircase winding up from the foyer.

“Oh, but we cannot possibly go upstairs. We should remain here. The kitchen must be down that corridor. You have not removed your coat.”

“I must see to the horses. But the place is empty. Be at your leisure. See to your comforts and your companion’s first, then if you will, investigate the kitchen. The lad will not fare well for much longer without dinner.”

“And me as well, you mean.”

He offered a hint of a smile then bowed and went through the front door again.

Chapter 13

S
he moved about the house in obvious appreciation. Wyn watched her discovering, drawn to follow her as though he had not trodden these floors thousands of times before. Every opening door drew another smile from her, another murmur of pleasure.

“It is all so lovely, though remarkably dusty.” She ran her finger along a windowsill in the East Parlor. “Perhaps the owners have been away for some time.”

Five years. “Perhaps.”

“We should confine ourselves to only this chamber, and try not to disturb too much. And we must leave compensation for food and fuel.”

“There’s peat to spare.” Owen set a brick of dried earth in the grate and the musky scent twined throughout the chamber. The chimney was blessedly clean. No one had inhabited this house in five years, but it had not been left entirely untended.

She peeked under a Holland cover. “The furniture is in very fine condition. And everything is so neat and tidy and well appointed. I think a woman lives here. A woman of excellent taste. I wonder where she is now? London, perhaps, where I will soon be, and though she has been my hostess I won’t even know if I pass her by on the street.”

She drew a cover off a chair and folded it, dust swirling in the air. Her nose twitched, and she passed the back of her hand across it unselfconsciously. She hadn’t the manners of a town lady; the country girl clung, unspoiled. Yet she was wise in reading others. Except him.

She had changed her clothing and wore now a simple gown of moss green that left her neck and arms bare but for the shawl about her elbows. She had creamy skin, a graceful neck and beautiful shape, and looking upon her Wyn was thirsty. He craved her. His heart beat fast, his breaths short. He wanted to touch her, to explore her satin skin with his hands and mouth, to caress her everywhere.

It was the liquor calling, making him crave.

“How long will we remain here?” She came to his side. “Overnight?”

“Perhaps a day or two.” Until young William arrived with the baron, or Kitty came from London. “We must make certain Eads is well away from the road before we turn back east.”

“Mrs. Polley was grumbling again about this detour. But she has made herself comfortable in the kitchen. She even found an unspoiled jar of oil and another of flour. It seems she enjoys baking.” She smiled, the dimples denting her pale cheeks.

Wyn went to the door. “Owen, come along to the gatehouse with me. We will see you settled in.”

The lad walked beside him along the drive. “Sir . . .” He kicked a stone with his toe.

“Owen?”

“You’re not telling her, then, about this place?”

“I am not telling her.”

“She’s a good one, sir.”

“She is indeed.”

“Mr. Guyther says he can’t hold the fold up in the hills many more weeks.”

“We shan’t be here weeks, Owen. Days only. And Mr. Guyther will do as I say. As will you, I trust.” He halted and set his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You must not tell her. If she knows, she will leave here and put herself in danger.” But now he questioned whether she would, even if he told her the truth. She was reckless, yes, but perhaps now wiser than when she’d set out upon her quest. Perhaps, in fact, she merely possessed desires beyond her situation in life—desires she could not easily fulfill, like rescuing her mother, and being touched by a man.

“Aye.” Owen nodded, frowning. “But I don’t like it, sir.”

Wyn wanted a brandy. Whiskey. Whatever it would take. “Neither do I.”

M
rs. Polley concocted a modest dinner from the pantry that was well stocked with pickled and dried foods, and simple oatcakes she baked on the grate over the peat fire in the kitchen. Miss Lucas ate happily, and the boy filled his mouth and stared at her guiltily, while the matron ran a commentary about the house. Wyn barely attended. As the evening progressed, the prickly jitters in his blood increased to a cry then a roar that he struggled to ignore. But it was of little use. He could think of nothing but brandy and the maiden sitting across the room—both unprofitable desires.

He went to the stable and tended the horses, pulling hay and oats from the supply Owen had brought from the house of Aled Guyther, the abbey’s land steward. He walked the perimeters of the estate’s wild gardens and walls, and along the sodden, mossy irrigation canal that ran to the stream. He looked into the gatehouse again. Then he saddled Galahad and set out across the hills where no animals grazed now because his orders to Guyther, conveyed by Owen, specified that the place be emptied of people and livestock. Now he could go speak with Guyther, but instead he avoided the path to the village a mile distant and the tiny pub there, as well as the modest chapel with the cemetery and a five-year-old grave he had not yet seen, had not yet visited.

The hills grew dark beneath steady rain, and finally he returned to the house. The drawing room with its dusty bottles tucked into the sideboard cabinet beckoned. He didn’t care what was in those bottles. His very marrow wanted their contents.

She met him at the parlor door, silhouetted in firelight and Mrs. Polley’s snores.

“I heard you come in. You must be exhausted. You don’t look well.” Her eyes were tired but soft. He stepped close to her to feel her warmth and to tease himself for a moment that there could be some satisfaction had this night.

“You know precisely how to bolster a man’s confidence.”

“In fact I find you remarkably handsome, but you no doubt already know that, and anyway, fine London ladies probably tell you that all the time so it isn’t any marvelous surprise that I would too. But I don’t know how you manage to maintain it here. I am a soggy, crumpled mess. My mother will be horrified when she sees me. But you appear elegant even soaked with rain.” Her blue eyes turned up, wide now and as hungry as the need within him.

“Good night, Miss Lucas.” He turned toward the stair.

“Where are you going?

“To sleep. I suggest you find a comfortable spot and do the same.”

“Where?”

He gestured along the corridor.

Slender brows shot up. “In a
bedchamber
?”

“That is usually where one sleeps.” And did other things that he wanted to do to her now.

“But—”

A sneeze interrupted Mrs. Polley’s snores. She coughed then settled back into sleep.

Miss Lucas’s brow dipped. “I think she took a chill today. I suggested she make a soothing broth from the dried meat but she scoffed at that. I am an indifferent cook.” She shrugged lightly. “It is a very good thing we shan’t be here long and that Mrs. Polley likes the kitchen, or else we would certainly starve.”

He could not entirely resist her good humor. “No doubt you have other talents.”

“Oh, I can embroider up a storm and do a fine watercolor of a garden trellis. Truly useful skills under present circumstances.”

He smiled. “Eating is overrated.”

“I’ve no doubt
you
believe so. I, on the other hand, am still famished.” She placed a hand beneath her breasts, over her stomach. “Do you really intend for us to remain here more than a night?”

“Through tomorrow night. Longer if Mrs. Polley is ill.”

She seemed to study him, her gaze dipping to his mouth. “I have something I must say to you.”

He bowed. “As you please.”

“Earlier today, when you said I save lost souls, you seemed puzzled, as though speaking of a foreign thing. But I don’t think it is as foreign to you as you allow.” Her fingertips pressed into her ribs, her gaze steady upon him. “I think—I
know
—you have helped people before this.”

They had all been assignments, means to ends. Not like this woman whose touch when she’d taken his hand earlier had nearly sent him to his knees on the muddy road. She looked up at him now not with the eyes of infatuation. Infatuation he recognized; he’d seen it plenty of times. This was different. This he could not entirely fathom and did not want.

“Whether I have or have not is immaterial to our situation now.” Their situation in which he lied to her and lusted after her at once. “See to your companion’s comfort then find a place yourself to sleep and get some rest.” Taking a candle from the foyer table, he went up to the drawing room. In the dark chamber filled with furniture that looked like ghosts beneath their covers, he opened the cabinet. The bottles gleamed dully. His hand shook as he reached for the nearest.

O
wen woke him in the rainy depths of the night. Inside the gatehouse, young William slumped against a wall, sleeping. Ramses bathed his narrow face with his tongue and William roused and told Wyn what he feared: Lord Carlyle could not be found in Devon, nor the Earl or Countess of Savege. All were in London already, it seemed. As instructed, William had spoken his secret to no one and come swiftly here.

Wyn cursed himself. He had been a fool to send to Devon first. But he hadn’t truly believed she would not be deterred. He had made many mistakes with her and was possibly in the process of making the worst yet.

He bid Owen feed the messenger, gave William a sack of coins, and instructed the youth to be on his way the moment the sun rose. Then he set off again onto the hills of his great-aunt’s estate, sleep never farther and thirst dragging at him like the rain that showed no sign of abating. With the dog in his footsteps he walked until dawn when, far up in the sheep fields, he found a hollow of rocks he’d frequented as a child. In those days he had made of it a fort from which he conquered the flocks as though they were dragons set upon destroying his great-aunt’s castle.

It was nominally dry. He settled into it, Ramses tucking into a ball beneath the mantle of his coat.

He did not sleep. The cruel humming in his blood would not allow it. Instead he thought of Diantha Lucas, of her need and desires, and for the first time in his life knew not what path to take next.

When the sky lightened and he finally stood to shake off the night, to find his limbs weak, his head light, and hands trembling beyond his ability to still them, every fiber in his body wanted brandy. Then he finally understood the path before him. It suited him well enough. That it was going to be a hellish several days until Kitty Blackwood arrived from London, he had no doubt. But if it kept Diantha Lucas in one place, he would do it. His demons had ruled him long enough.

“E
ggs!” Mrs. Polley trumpeted her red nose into a rag and upon her opposite palm produced a little brown treasure. The hen from which she had taken it seemed unperturbed.

Diantha’s stomach rumbled. She licked her lips—without Mr. Yale anywhere in sight to inspire it. Remarkable.

“Those are some right small eggs,” Owen said skeptically.

Diantha shrugged. “They will still taste divine. Perhaps the chickens are small?”

Mrs. Polley tucked her hand beneath another feathered belly and withdrew a second treasure. “It’s plain neither of you know a thing about fowl.”

“It cannot be wondered at.”

Diantha swung around. Mr. Yale stood in the shed’s doorway, arms crossed loosely, a shoulder propped against the doorjamb, the hem of his black topcoat brushing the packed dirt ground.

Her breath petered out of her. She didn’t care what she told herself—that she’d been very happy today reading, chatting with Owen, and assisting Mrs. Polley with cooking and baking tasks. Seeing him now after so many hours was beyond pleasurable.

She went to him. “Owen discovered this shed and the chickens.”

A single black brow rose and he directed a sharp look at the boy. “Did he?”

Owen tugged at his cap. “Afternoon, sir.”

“Isn’t it wonderful? We will have eggs for dinner shortly, and Mrs. Polley has baked oat bread.”

“Not that
that
man will eat a bite of it.” Mrs. Polley waddled to another chicken and foraged beneath it. “Hasn’t eaten a bit of anything I’ve cooked.”

He bent his head and spoke sotto voice to Diantha. “I see I have descended a rung in your companion’s estimation.”

“How is that?”

“She is speaking to me in the third person.”

“And now you are doing the same of her.”

“Yes, but I am actually speaking to you.”

Mrs. Polley harrumphed. “Too high and mighty for simple cookery.”

“Ah,” he said with his slight smile, “we have come to the root of the problem.”

“Truly, Mr. Yale.” Diantha laughed. “You are far too high and mighty. You must come down from your loft.” She leaned in close to him and resisted taking a big breath of his scent of rain and man. “You really should share dinner with us. I think she is honestly insulted.”

“I’ve no need to be begging the gentleman to eat my food. If he doesn’t like it, he can go on back to London and his perfumed chefs.”

“I would be honored to eschew my perfumed chef’s culinary offerings for yours, ma’am.” He spoke with that slight smile still, but his voice was not perfectly smooth.

“Isn’t this place curious?” Diantha gestured. “It is not a hen house, so it must not be these chickens’ regular home, I suspect, but they are laying very contentedly nonetheless.”

“Curious, indeed.” He cast Owen another glance. “One wonders what other surprises he may produce.” The boy ducked out the door and Mr. Yale followed him for a pace with his gaze then returned his regard to her.

“We found a cow.”

His brow rose.

“She was eating clover over on the hedge in the rain and lowing. Quite mournfully. Owen put her in the stable with the horses and now they all seem perfectly happy together eating hay. She must be lost. Someone will no doubt come looking for her and discover us interloping, then we shall be hauled before the magistrate and all will be ruined.” She took a big breath and sighed it away theatrically. “So, you see, we have had a very adventuresome day while you were gone.”

A glimmer shone in his eyes, but his stance was rigid and he did not unlock his arms.

“Where have you been?” she asked.

“About.”

“Where?”

Mrs. Polley bustled past them, apron full of eggs. “Dark gentlemen like to keep secrets. I’ve said so already.”

He looked after her as she wobbled down the path toward the house. “She has?”