More Than a Stranger: A Sealed With a Kiss Novel (33 page)

Hurry, Richard!

Chapter Twenty-five

I am glad that I will not be there to see the frown upon your lips, especially knowing I was the cause of your unhappiness. I’d rather be tossed in gaol than hurt you.

—From Hastings to Evie, torn into tiny pieces before tossed in the bin

D
rip. Drip. Drip.

The incessant dripping was the first thing that worked its way into Benedict’s subconscious. The repetitive splashing was exceedingly annoying, but he couldn’t quite place where it was coming from. His mind worked sluggishly, trying to make sense of the noise that seemed out of place in his bedroom.

And why was he so bloody cold? Everywhere, he could feel cold. The damp air on his skin was cold, but not as much as the unforgiving stone he lay on. Benedict’s fuzzy mind slowly identified the situation as unusual. Why was he lying on stone?

He came awake in a rush as he realized he was in the wine cellar.

Dizziness coursed through him—he had sat up too quickly. He paused for a moment until the feeling passed, then looked around at his surroundings. Dimness. There was very little light in the space, but the fact there was light at all meant it was morning. He could make out the dim outline of the flagstones that paved the floor, as well as the barrel-shaped arch of the low stone ceiling. Water was dripping in a slow rhythm somewhere at the far end of the room. Stifling a groan, he swung his legs around and leaned back against the rough stone wall.

Yesterday had not been a good day.

Hell, his head hurt just
thinking
about it. When Nigel and his cohort, a burly man by the name of William, had captured him, they had promptly tossed him in the wine cellar the old earl had commissioned some thirty years earlier. It was built into the side of the sloping earth not twenty paces from the back of the house.

Nigel, apparently still peeved from the small matter of Benedict’s attempt to choke him, had grinned pleasantly before walloping him with a sickening punch to his jaw. The impact had thrown Benedict to the back wall, where his head had bounced painfully off the stone moments before he dropped to the floor. Fortunately, he didn’t actually
remember
hitting the floor; he just knew it to be the case when sometime later—he had no way of knowing how much time had passed—he had awoken in a heap on the ground.

With no light to illuminate his surroundings, he had gingerly explored the space inch by inch, hoping to find a way out. When the pounding of his head had exceeded even the pounding of his heart, he knew he had to stop. The darkness would have been disorientating even without his light-headedness; but with the added obstacle of exhaustion pulling at him like a physical force, he had finally decided to give in to his body’s screaming demand to rest.

Somehow “rest” must have turned into full-fledged sleep. Stretching, he blinked and focused on the sliver of light coming from the small gap between the door and the stone threshold. The door was fashioned from rough-hewn timbers secured with iron hinges and a large brass lock. At almost thirty years old, the wooden door might have rotted enough for him to bust through. It was doubtful but still possible.

Gingerly, he had pushed himself up into a sitting position, his palms pressing against the cold, damp rock. Mercifully, though it still ached mightily, his headache did feel as though it was beginning to retreat. With utmost care, he lifted his body so he was on his hands and knees, and prepared to stand up. As a wave of pain ambushed him, he sat back on his heels and pressed his palm to his forehead.

If he ever got out of this situation, he was going to live his life with the sole priority of never getting knocked in the skull again.

Gritting his teeth, he lifted his right knee so the ball of his foot was planted firmly on the ground. He braced his hand on his knee and, after taking a deep breath, rose to a standing position. For a moment he rejoiced at the lack of pain, but after a beat, it came crashing down within his skull again. He staggered to the wall and leaned against it, breathing shallowly until the feeling subsided.

Well, that had gone well
.

Into the silent darkness he said, “Right. Now what?”

Not surprisingly, there was no reply. He shuffled over to the door, supporting himself against the wall with one hand as he moved. Cautiously he pressed against it; it felt as solid as the day it was made.

“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath. He hadn’t expected it to give, but it would have been a nice break. The next step was to kick the thing, but even thinking it made his head ache.
It’s only temporary,
he reminded himself. Pain was a fleeting sensation in the scheme of things. Easy to say in the aftermath, but it was indeed difficult to convince oneself of this truth when faced with the prospect of deliberately inflicting it on oneself.

“On the count of three,” he murmured. He swallowed audibly, took a deep breath, and started counting. “One, two, three!”

Bang!
His heel crashed down on the door with all the strength he could muster. The wood shuddered mightily, but, to his immense dissatisfaction, it held its ground.
Bollocks
. He growled angrily, glaring at the steadfast door and doing his best to ignore the furious pounding in his head.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a muffled voice warned from the other side of the door.

Benedict froze in surprise. A guard? His brother had posted a guard outside the cellar? Well, of course it made sense, but somehow he had in no way anticipated it.
Bloody hell,
he thought darkly. Walking backward until his back touched the wall, he then allowed himself to slide down the rough stone onto his backside.

What the hell was Henry waiting for, anyway? Surely the man had no reason to delay further, unless he was hoping to starve Benedict to death. His stomach growled loudly; perhaps that
was
the tactic Henry planned to employ. His brother never had liked getting his hands dirty.

At least he hadn’t used to. Benedict clenched his jaw. Henry’s words came back to him, as clearly as if Benedict were standing outside the window in Folkestone again, breathing in the salty sea air.
I assure you, I intend to see this done with all possible haste.

At the sound of his brother’s clipped, nasal intonations, its perfectly proper King’s English in stark contrast to Renault’s heavy French accent, Benedict’s world had suddenly tilted, and he had clung desperately to the window ledge for balance. He had stood there reeling, fighting for breath as his vision narrowed and his insides twisted like a ruined ship’s mast in gale-force winds.

Benedict clenched both fists at his side, renewing his promise to Evie and to himself to make his brother pay for the chaos his actions had wreaked on so many lives.

A scraping noise at the door caught his attention. The sound of metal on metal followed—a key in the lock!

Turning to face the door, Benedict braced himself. He was about to find out what his brother had in mind for him.

* * *

Sitting in bed just past seven in the morning, Evie mentally paced her room, trying to loosen the knot of apprehension that had taken up residence inside her chest. It had been two hours since Richard had departed, and the gloomy light of another cloudy day filtered through the window. Although exhausted, she had managed to sleep only in quick snatches since her brother had departed.

Evie looked up at the sound of a knock at the door. “Enter.”

Mama opened the door, looking somewhat reserved. “How are you this morning?”

It was hard not to scowl at her mother. She wanted to be furious with Mama for standing in the way of her hopes for the future, but with the threat of the challenges Richard and Benedict faced, she pushed those feelings to the back of her mind. There would be time for that later. Besides, she knew Mama thought she was doing right by her. “I am feeling reasonably better.”

Her mother paused at the foot of her bed. “Richard departed for London this morning. He left a note, and I thought you might like to see it.” She handed the folded paper to Evie and crossed her arms. “You look exhausted, sweetheart. Why don’t you get some more rest? I’ll be back in a few hours to check on you.”

Evie nodded, and her mother left, shutting the door behind her. Evie unfolded the letter and scanned the contents. The letter simply stated that Richard had returned to London on an urgent matter and had indicated he would see them when they came to town. There was no mention of Benedict, the hunting lodge, or Lord Dennington.

Benedict, Richard, herself—they were liars, all of them. This whole mess was turning them into what she hated most. It physically pained her to deceive her parents about where Richard was and why the incident had happened. Was this how Benedict had felt when he had been forced to lie to her?

Evie wondered what her father felt about the mess. As far as she knew, he thought the man who shot at them was simply a poacher who had fired on them in error, thinking them a herd of deer. He had not visited her since the day she was injured, and she dared not ask her mother how he was doing. Though there had been ample activity in the yard that morning, with several men coming and going on horseback, Evie was sure her father was still in residence.

She had never felt so helpless in her entire life. She glared down at the sling on her arm, silently and creatively cursing the injury it covered. If she had not been injured, Benedict would not be chasing across the countryside trying to hunt down his brother. Her own brother would not have gone tearing off after him, racing into a dangerous and unknown situation. She knew she was irrational. It was Dennington’s actions that had incurred Benedict’s wrath, and Benedict would have eventually decided to turn the traitor in, whether she was involved or not.

But it did not matter. The injury represented both the catalyst that had set Benedict off, and the roadblock that prevented her from doing anything to help. Worst of all, it served as the physical manifestation of Benedict’s dishonesty to her and her family.

And she hated it.

Restless beyond measure, Evie threw aside the sheets, slid from the bed, and went straight for the box that held Benedict’s letters. She suddenly felt the need to see his writing, to read his words—honest words—and discover how she would feel about them almost a decade removed from their last correspondence. It was time to face that last letter, as he had requested.

But first, she wanted to read the others—the ones that had made her laugh and feel so connected to him. After his betrayal, she had intended to destroy the lot of them, but when she stood in front of the flickering flames of her fireplace, she found she couldn’t do it. She told herself she should keep them as a reminder of how sweet words could turn to terrible hurt, but deep down, she knew it was because she couldn’t lose him completely. Instead, she’d let the letters serve as a cautionary tale so that she would never be fooled by a man again.

Locating the bundle, she hustled back to her bed and drew the covers up. She untied the blue ribbon around them and stared at the familiar writing that spelled out her address on the top letter. She smoothed her fingers over her own name, feeling a wholly unexpected rush of emotion.

Hastings . . . her Hastings. Her Benedict.

She opened the letter and began reading.

Dear Evie,

In the absence of an accompanying parcel to the letter I received from you today, allow me to remind you that I am still waiting for the embroidery sample you promised me in your letter last month. “Home of a practically illiterate, chauvinistic dimwit” would be the perfect piece to enliven my dormitory room, wouldn’t you agree?

One by one she read through them, and by the time
Evie emerged from the letters, it was almost nine. Warmth tickled her cheek and she swiped a hand at an errant tear.

She loved him.

She probably always had, and she probably always would. It mattered not what he called himself, or what secrets he had held to his chest. He was hers, and she loved him.

She thought of the circumstances surrounding the whole debacle. If what Richard said was true, Benedict was going to try to turn his brother in. She knew what that meant, no matter how much her mind tried to shy away from the possibility.

His family would be ruined.

If the Earl of Dennington was found to be a traitor, the family would be stripped of the title and all that went with it. Benedict would not be allowed to set foot in polite society ever again.

She swallowed thickly. So what did that mean for her? Before she could answer that question, she pulled the infamous last letter from the bottom and slowly unfolded it. It was distinct, easily recognizable by the odd way he had folded it.

Evie,