Return of the Viscount (15 page)

And then he thought he heard the faintest cry. He froze, and his horse did the same, its ears twitching. Slowly, he went forward, and the cry became louder, though hoarse.

“I'm here! But beware the hole!”

He came up short when he understood her and dismounted. He could see the hole now, a gaping blackness in the center of the narrow path. Cursing under his breath, he pulled the cane out of the strap behind the saddle, and limped forward. He saw the top of her blond head before he reached the edge, and went down on his knees to peer in.

“You came,” she cried, sagging back against the dirt wall that was etched with rivulets of water and mud.

The color of her gown was indiscernible, her hair and face matted with mud. But she was alive and on her feet and staring up at him with hope.

“Are you injured?” he demanded.

She shook her head. “But I can't get out. If you hadn't come . . .”

She trailed off, swallowing, and he knew she'd feared that she'd been abandoned.

“I'll always come for you, Cecilia,” he said. Then he saw a stone as she dropped it, the gouges in the wall one above the other near a tree root. “Were you trying to dig stairs?”

Her blue eyes lightened with satisfaction. “Yes, I was. But it's very muddy, and I wasn't sure they could hold my weight, even if I supported myself with the root.”

“You're a resourceful woman,” he said with admiration, watching her blush beneath the layer of dirt on her skin. “And you never lost your head. Take my hands, and I'll pull you to safety.”

Her hands were slick with mud, and he could feel her trembling. As he pulled, she used her feet to climb up the rough walls of the hole. When she emerged, she collapsed against him. He held her tight, kissing the top of her head over and over, feeling more relieved and full of fear than he'd ever felt on a battlefield.

She clutched at him for a moment, her heart pounding against his chest, her body quaking. And then he realized how cold she was, for her hands were like ice. He held her back a bit although she was still in his lap.

Chafing her dirty hands between his, he stared into her face. “What happened?”

“I don't know,” she said between chattering teeth. “One moment, I was striding along; the next, I was falling forward. I'm so lucky—I could have broken my neck!” She stared up at him almost wildly.

He took her cold face between his hands. “Thank God you're all right. I knew something was wrong even though everyone else thought you'd sought shelter from the rain.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, then dropped her gaze.

“Let me get you home. We'll talk then.”

He saw her chin lift, the mutinous curve of her mouth, as if she planned to keep everything in. Well, he'd just see about that. He stood up first, and when he pulled her up after him, she swayed.

“Goodness, my skirts are heavy when they're full of mud,” she said, her lightheartedness obviously forced.

“The horse won't care.”

She pulled back and stared up at him. “We are not riding together.”

He rolled his eyes even as the rain streaked down, washing more of the mud from her stubborn face. “Do you hear yourself? Do you plan to walk back in this weather? I'll mount first, then pull you up.”

She opened her mouth as if to protest, but he ignored her, mounting and securing his cane, before reaching down a hand. With an exaggerated sigh of surrender, she put her foot on top of his in the stirrup, and he had an intriguing glimpse of her damp stockings. Then he pulled, and he managed to toss her across his lap although she obviously meant to ride behind.

“This is . . . uncomfortable,” she fumed.

He slid back in the saddle so that her hip wasn't jammed against the pommel. “For me, too. But I'll suffer quietly.”

Of course, he was suffering in ways she couldn't imagine, with her body so intimately close to his. He opened his cloak and pulled it around her, sharing his heat. He felt her stiffen, thought she'd protest, but then, with a sigh, she sank back against him. They rode home in silence, and he wasn't surprised to see Talbot, Mrs. Ellison, and Nell waiting beneath the portico, wearing relieved expressions. But her brother wasn't there.

Mrs. Ellison and Nell took charge, hustling Cecilia away. Talbot called for Tom and Will to see to bathing tubs for both rooms. Michael had a brief flash of sharing a brimming tub with his wife, but he put it from his mind—for now.

Talbot was staring at him. “My lord, do tell me what happened. Lady Blackthorne looks a fright.”

Michael saw Appertan leaning in the doorway of the drawing room, and Doddridge hovering just behind, wringing his hands together.

“Do you want to know, too?” Michael asked his brother-in-law.

Appertan frowned. “What kind of question is that?”

Michael glared at him. “It's a good thing I didn't listen to you. She'd fallen into a hole.”

“Why wasn't she walking her normal route?” Appertan asked irritably.

“She was. That hole wasn't there yesterday.”

He saw Talbot inhale and Appertan's eyes widen, even as Doddridge gaped.

“A hole?” Appertan echoed. “She wasn't limping.”

“The hole was deep enough that she couldn't escape. I heard her screaming for help.”

Appertan grimaced and ran a hand through his hair before eyeing Michael once again. “My thanks for your gallant rescue. Go take care of yourself before you catch a fever.”

“Shall I escort you, Lord Blackthorne?” Talbot asked.

“I'm fine.” He glanced back at Appertan. “I'll speak with you soon.”

“I assume you'll be speaking with my sister first. We can cancel the dinner this evening if she likes.”

Michael was tempted to decide in her stead, saying of course they should cancel it. But there would be so many people who knew her—possible suspects. Yet it wasn't up to him. “I'll let you know.”

He went up to his bedroom to change, and then confront his wife.

Chapter 14

C
ecilia couldn't stop shaking, even after submerging herself in a steaming bath. Nell wanted to bundle her into bed for the day with hot compresses, but Cecilia was too impatient for that, dressing in a plain, loose gown, then pacing after Nell brought her a tray of carrot soup, bread, and hot tea.

When she was alone, Cecilia looked crossly at the tray. “I'm not sick.”

But inside, she was sick at heart. She was so used to being in control of every situation, and these—these accidents made her feel like cowering under her covers and never leaving her room. She couldn't live like that. Uncertainty and fear were making her question everything.

Except . . . Lord Blackthorne. He'd rescued her from the hole, confirming her belief in his innocence. Nell confided that he'd been worried through breakfast, whereas Oliver said that surely the storm had delayed her.

As if her own brother didn't want her found.

Cecilia felt the prick of tears again, put her palms over her eyes, and willed them away. Crying wouldn't help.

A knock on her door made her straighten, and she tried to compose herself as she called for the person to enter. She wasn't surprised to see her husband, his gaze focused darkly on her, taking everything in. With her old garments on, and her hair pulled back with a simple bow, she felt unmade, unkempt, which was the most ridiculous thing to think at such a time. But Lord Blackthorne seemed to do that to her.

He closed the door and leaned both hands on his cane as he studied her.

“Do I pass inspection?” she asked wryly.

“You clean up well.”

She almost laughed at that even though she wasn't amused.

“How do you feel?”

She hesitated. “It hurts to take a deep breath.”

“Your ribs.”

“So the doctor informs me. I have some aches, but he says I was very lucky, and there's nothing he can do for me except prescribe rest and warm baths for my pain.”

In her mind, she was in the cold mud again, feeling the rain start, wondering with terror what it would be like to waste away like a trapped animal.

“Try not to think about it,” he said, his voice gentler.

She blinked at him. “We've been acquainted just over a week, and already you read me too well.”

“Too well? Do you not think I've spent the last several hours imagining what might have happened if I hadn't found you? From the looks of you, you've done the same.”

She gave him a weak smile.

“So tell me what happened,” he continued, his voice businesslike again. “And then we notify the constable.”

Her head came up. “No. Surely some poacher dug a hole to—”

“Enough with these games where you pretend to ignore the truth,” he interrupted.

He limped toward her until she had to arch her neck to look up at him.

“You don't believe any of this was an accident, and I'm done going along with your games of fancy, where you wish things were different.”

“What are you saying?”

“We're all concerned about you, and we've shared information. Miss Webster confided your concerns to Appertan, who confided in me. You think someone might be trying to harm you—or even kill you.”

She'd said that to Penelope, but hearing the cold, hard words from her husband's mouth felt . . . different, and very real. “I . . . I imagine I shall keep my secrets from now on.”

He groaned and ran a hand through his dark hair. “
That's
your response? That you wish you'd said nothing? Would you prefer I think you had some bad luck, so that when this villain succeeded, we could have only complained about how we wish we'd known?”

She looked away from his focused gaze, hearing the frustration in his voice even though he didn't raise it. He was not a man to lose control, to react without thinking. “Lord Blackthorne—”

“My name is Michael. I've been ‘Sergeant' or ‘Blackthorne' for so long that I forget what my Christian name sounds like. I would like you to use it.”

“Michael,” she said in a soft voice.

Some part of him must have relaxed, for he spoke in a more normal tone. “When you fell into the hole, you saw and heard no one?”

“Not until you arrived.” She folded her hands at her waist.

“And since this all started at the time of my arrival, do you think I'm capable of this?”

“No.”

“What can I say to convince you that—” He broke off in sudden realization of her denial. “My rescue today must have convinced you of my innocence.”

“Not really. I simply . . . never believed you capable of it even when I wondered if I was being naïve.” Her father had known Michael for years under the worst sort of conditions and only had high praise for him. Ever since his arrival, although they disagreed about their marriage, he'd abided by her wishes and even tried to help her brother.

“Thank you,” he said softly, his eyes momentarily tender.

The answering sweet ache deep inside her was unsettling.

He cleared his throat. “Then call the constable,” he said again.

She briefly closed her eyes. “And what would I say, Michael? That I tripped down the stairs? That a maid admitted she thought she'd accidentally bumped the bust that fell on me? And now—a hole? The constable sees poacher traps every day!” And the most damning reason: the person with the best motive to harm her was her brother, whose life she controlled. But since he could take all of that control away from her—and she so loved him—she refused to believe he might be guilty and didn't want anyone else tarnishing his reputation by suggesting it aloud. “Michael, I have no
proof.
”

“But if we talk to the constable,” Michael continued, “then he'll be on the alert.”

“Any more than you already are? You
live
here.”

“Are you saying you
trust
me to take care of you?”

“I don't know what I believe.” To her dismay, her voice cracked, and she cleared her throat to cover the weakness. Was she really like her mother? Cecilia had tried so hard to be confident in her own worth, but her mother could never trust in that, could never trust the men in her life. Maybe Cecilia was the same way, and she'd never realized it. She didn't trust Oliver to manage the estate; she didn't trust Michael to be a husband to her. Those fears had made her mother a miserable, clinging woman who'd destroyed every small happiness that came her way.

It all came down to trust, and Cecilia didn't know how to trust anyone but herself. How could that be, when she'd had such a wonderful father? Perhaps she thought no man could ever compare. Was a lack of trust the reason she never wanted to marry, why she was so content to take over the estates herself? Putting herself in someone else's hands seemed like the worst mistake imaginable. It was better to be alone.

“We need to cancel this dinner,” he suddenly said.

He was standing near the window, looking out on the park, his expression cool and composed. Appertan Hall was just a place to him, but to her, it was an integral part of her life, as necessary as her blood. And somewhere out there was a person who wanted her dead.

“This dinner might have suspects,” she said. “You're a soldier—isn't it your duty to investigate?”

“I've already begun.” He glanced at her pointedly.

“You have? What have you learned?”

“I don't have time to lay it out for you today—unless you're canceling the dinner.”

She lifted her chin. “No.”

Then he came to her, so swiftly she almost fell back a step. He caught her as she began to sway, his hands cupping her waist, his face leaning toward her.

“I will keep you safe, Cecilia,” he whispered with urgency.

How could he? If someone who knew and loved her wanted her dead . . .

But no, that was a fatalistic attitude. The villain didn't have to be Oliver. Perhaps there was someone else.

She stepped back, and Michael's warm hands fell away from her waist. “Then I'll see you for dinner,” she said.

He looked as if he wanted to say something else, then he pressed his lips in a straight line, nodded, and limped toward the dressing-room door.

He suddenly stopped, and said over his shoulder. “Don't mistake a simple limp for weakness, Cecilia. I will ensure your safety, whatever I have to do.”

And then he left, and all she could do was hug herself. Sometimes she wished she were the type of woman who would fling herself into a man's arms and beg to be rescued.

But she would never let that happen.

C
ecilia spent much of the day in her bedroom, where Mrs. Ellison came to consult her about the seating for the dinner party and a problem with the menu. Cecilia was glad to think about something other than the suspicions buzzing endlessly around in her brain. When Mrs. Ellison hinted that they could still cancel because of the unfortunate accident, Cecilia firmly refused.

Late in the afternoon, Talbot informed her that Penelope and Oliver were awaiting her in the library. She would have preferred to talk to them at dinner, where she wouldn't have to relive the accident again. But she had no choice. She went downstairs, glad for Talbot's escort, and entered the book-lined room, with its leather furniture. She saw the way that Penelope glanced worriedly at the plain gown Cecilia was wearing, and Oliver stared at her over his brandy glass.

As Talbot pulled the door shut behind him, Cecilia looked down at herself, and said lightly, “You caught me before I could prepare for dinner.”

Penelope rushed to hug her, then gripped her upper arms and stared into her eyes. “You look as if nothing has happened!”

Cecilia felt as ancient and tired as a god who'd lost his powers. “Believe me, my aches and pains tell me otherwise.”

“There's a bruise on your cheek,” Oliver said.

Cecilia touched it with her fingers. “I thought Nell did an admirable job hiding it.”

“But I know you too well,” he said, turning to refill his glass.

The tightness in her throat threatened to choke her, to cause a terrible waterfall of tears.

“Do you know who dug the hole?” Penelope asked.

She shook her head.

“Do you think someone meant to take down a deer?” Oliver tilted his head as he studied her.

Cecilia hesitated, wondering if he was implying that he didn't believe her. “I hope so. But I understand that both of you repeated my concerns, and now Lord Blackthorne knows I believe these are more than accidents.”

Penelope winced. “Oh, dear. I thought your brother deserved to know. Was that wrong of me?”

Cecilia took her hand and gave a tired smile. “No, I understand your concern.” Then she glanced at Oliver. “I imagine you thought my husband should know.”

Oliver shrugged. “Seems you didn't bother to tell him. Was that because you think he's trying to kill you?”

Penelope gasped aloud, and Cecilia stiffened, surprised to feel herself defensive on Michael's behalf.

“No,” Cecilia said. “There's no motive for him to do so. He will inherit none of my money. And he was Papa's good friend for many years.”

Oliver shrugged. “He and I discussed many different suspects.”

“He offered to tell me everything.”

“As
you
should have done with me,” Oliver countered.

He looked mutinous and angry, as if he realized she didn't trust him. But how could he know the depths of her suspicions? Even she didn't want to consider the worst.

Penelope glanced at each of them with concern. “You have had a terrible day, Cecilia. If I'd known, I would have come earlier to help you deal with this dinner party.”

“Mrs. Ellison has it so well in hand that even I have had little to do today, but it is very sweet of you to offer.”

“You could sit and relax, and I would be happy to read to you.”

Cecilia opened her mouth to decline, but Penelope seemed so anxious to help in any small way. She finally smiled. “That would be lovely.”

Penelope glanced at Oliver. “Do you mind, Oliver?”

He gestured with his glass. “Good of you to help. I'll be in the billiard room.”

Anything to escape, Cecilia thought, faintly smiling as she watched him leave the room. But her smile faded, and her chest hurt, but it wasn't because of her fall that morn.

Was she losing her last brother?

M
ichael went down to the drawing room before the dinner guests were due to arrive. Dozens of lamps had been lit to emphasize the ancient weapons displayed high on the stone walls. Fresh flowers festooned each table, and the smell was almost overpoweringly sweet.

It was difficult to think about entertaining guests after what had happened that morning. And it was a mark of Cecilia's bravery—or stubbornness—that she was going through with it. He stalked to the French doors and looked out through the windows at the gardens, where dusk had fallen. Long shadows crept across the ground like fingers pointing at the castle.

Logically, he understood that since the “accidents” had begun right after he arrived, she might suspect him. But she didn't, as if she'd grown to trust him. He felt elated and hopeful, until he remembered the bust shattering on the marble, and looking over the balustrade to see Cecilia gaping up at him from where she'd tumbled to the floor. She'd almost fallen down the stairs the first night he arrived. Yet she'd gone on denying what had happened, pretending everything was all right.

He'd thought the way she kept her distance from him was about their marriage, his insistence on remaining in the union and her resistance to the whole idea. And then there was her brother and his many problems, and the future certainty that she'd have to give up running the empire she'd nurtured. There were so many reasons for her to be upset—he'd just never considered that she was frightened for her life.