The Art of Duke Hunting (19 page)

And he had to find her and tell her all this right away. Before he lost his nerve.

He began to run. He ran and ran until he reached the top of the long hill to the north of the estate. Finally, he looked down, and saw the enormous maze in the distance.

There was something small and white caught on the tall branches near the center. It had to be something of hers. But he was too far away for her to hear him. The blasted maze had to be a half mile long on each of the sides of the hexagon.

Roman stopped and searched for a better vantage point. There were none. The thing was not meant to be easy. And so he studied it, memorizing as many features, turns, tricks he could see from this hill. He stood there, desperate to start, and desperate to stay and work it out.

The former won out in the end and he ran down the hill and entered the maze from the nearest opening.

At every turn in the tall hedge, he paused, placed two fingers between his lips and whistled shrilly and then waited for a response.

Nothing.

God, it was hot. Hotter than Hades on midsummer’s night eve. Given his innate fine sense of direction, he was confident that he was at least making progress toward the center and took care to check the location of the sun as he worked his way ever closer.

He didn’t know why he was beginning to panic. It was absurd.

She might be thirsty, or tired, or worried, but she would not be hurt. No one could get hurt in a maze. They could only get lost.

An hour later, panic set in fully. There was something about the place that was downright eerie. The boxwood was too dense.

He remembered hearing Candover say something at some point about how he was going to ignore the entail and tear the whole bloody thing down, it was so dangerous.

Someone—was it a poacher?—had actually perished in here.

He stopped. Yes. Candover had actually said that. He whistled again.

Nothing.

Roman looked at the wall of evergreen before him and took a decision. He put on his gloves, searched the interior and found a medium-sized trunk. He tried to grab it and climb to the top. It was next to impossible. There were thorns on the branches. Since when did boxwood have thorns?

He refused to stop and continued to climb, despite the vicious jabs of the branches. Near the top, the trunk swayed and he lost his grip and half slid, half fell back to the ground.

He cursed and cursed. His gloves were in ribbons as were his clothes. Well. That was not going to work. He picked himself up, ignoring flashes of pain and finally began to seriously run down every possible lane and avenue, yelling her name.

Finally, blessedly, he heard something. He stopped and called again. A feeble voice said something unintelligible in the distance.

“Esme!” He shouted again. “Please, please keep talking. I will find you. Stay where you are!” He prayed she would do as he bid.

He kept shouting to her every few moments, and listened hard for any response. A wisp of her voice drifted back to him, but it was different and it filled him with unease.

Another half hour passed in utter frustration. He was terrified he was getting farther away from her instead of nearer. He stopped again and closed his eyes, trying to remember the elaborate geometric design he had viewed from the hill.

And then finally, he turned a corner and saw her lying on the ground.

Chapter 12

R
oman dropped to his knees in gratitude. He half crawled, half ran to her. He grasped her hand in his and squeezed.

Her eyes barely slit open. What he saw made him ill. One of her eyes was very bloodshot, and that side of her face was scratched. Her gown was torn, and her arms marred by long scratches too.

“March!”

Her eyes opened more fully. “Montagu,” she whispered.

He leaned down to hear her better.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “So sorry for everything.”

He pulled out a flask he had tucked into the back of his breeches. He uncorked it, cradled her head, and dribbled a little brandy between her lips.

She coughed and then moaned.

“What is it?” He demanded hoarsely.

“I will never be able to thank you enough,” she whispered. “It was so stupid of me. I know better than to come here.”

“Stop it,” he gritted out.

“You’re bleeding,” she said unevenly.

“Stop,” he insisted. “Can you not walk?”

“I tried to climb there.” She pointed to a place that showed almost no trace of her attempt. “But I stupidly fell. My foot . . . I don’t know what’s wrong with it.”

He glanced down and moved to her feet. He felt beneath her torn stockings and one ankle was swollen.

When he squeezed slightly, she did not make a sound. “It might be sprained or even broken, my darling,” he said with concern.

“I guessed as much,” she whispered and lowered her head to the ground.

But she was far too listless. Something was off in her manner. “March, what is it? Something else is wrong. Tell me where it hurts.”

She closed her eyes and he rushed back up to her face.

She said something but he could not make it out.

“Tell me. March, please. I beg of you.”

Her eyes closed, she said, “Head . . . my . . .”

He gently felt her head beyond the tangle of her pretty light brown hair. His fingers came away sticky and wet; the back of her head was full of blood.

It was just like the night when his brother had . . .

He lost every button of his shirt as he immediately yanked it over his head and tore it into strips.

“March,” he ordered brusquely. “Open your eyes and listen to me.”

She murmured something.

“Just listen to me. Do not fall asleep. Do not. Stay here with me.” He tried to be as gentle as he could as he bound her head with the linen strips, to stem the loss of blood.

Her eyes fully closed.

“March, open your eyes, I tell you.”

They fluttered open.

“Do you remember the night of the storm? Do you remember when you told me to take your hand and told me you were there? I am ordering you to do the same, do you understand?” When she did not respond, he continued. “Squeeze my hand.”

He felt a gentle pressure in his grip. “All right. Now, drink more of this.” He held her head and poured a few more drops.

And then, with the meager amount of luck a cursed duke could count on, he heard voices.

He stood up and shouted as loudly as he could. And then he took off his boots.

For what seemed like hours, he tossed first one then the other as high as he could in the air, past the top of the tall wall of boxwoods. He took care to aim properly for if he lost the boots, there would be no way for them to be found.

Every two minutes, he would stop and drop to her side, to tell her he was there and to stay with him.

She would squeeze his hand.

And then she stopped squeezing his hand.

“Esme, my love, please . . . please try to stay here with me. I won’t leave you. Truly I will not.”

He closed his eyes and remembered all her tenderness, her wit, her desire to always please and bring a measure of happiness to everyone.

And what had he given her in return? He had protected her reputation, and he had promised her another fortune, which she did not need. And he had told her she should go live her life.

Alone
.

He had wanted no bloody ties. He didn’t want anyone to have an ounce of a reason to depend on him for anything except money.

He
didn’t want to depend on anyone for anything. Because to depend on anyone except yourself always led to unmitigated disaster. He would be born alone, and die alone. It was better to know it and live life that way. All the people who fluttered in and out of one’s life were naught but other creatures caught in the same cycle of life. Most were under the grand illusion that they were tied to other people—that they were not alone.

But it was not true.

He did not, and could not, depend on anyone. Except . . .

He looked down at her bruised and bloodied form, and his heart broke. “March, damn it all, I love you. Come on. Don’t go away. You cannot. I am”—his throat clogged—“I am
depending
on you. Please.”

Her fingers fluttered like a small bird in his hand.

And just like that, they were found.

E
sme lay in her bed, gazing at the shadowed scene she had painted so many years ago. Night had finally fallen, but ironically, she was too tired to sleep. She tried not to feel the pain that had been radiating from the back of her head and her ankle for the last day and a half.

She tried instead to remember what had happened when Roman Montagu had found her in the maze. Some of the moments were so clear. His warm, rumbling voice. The startling depths of his clear blue eyes filled with concern. She thought she might have seen him throwing something up in the air. But through it all, he had tended to her—in a way she had never experienced in her life. No man ever took care of her. She didn’t like it, really. She preferred to be the one to give than the one to receive.

She had never seen Roman Montagu in this fashion. He had tried desperately to comfort her, and to ensure that she not drift toward unconsciousness. It would have been so easy. But would it have been dangerous? She didn’t know, but apparently, he knew of such things.

She remembered nothing of the journey from the maze back to Derby Manor.

There was really only one thing she remembered with crystal clarity. Some of the words he had uttered as she had been about to let herself fall into darkness.

“
March, damn it, I love you. Don’t go. I am depending on you. Please . . .”

He was the last person in the world she could ever imagine saying those words. Had he said them in an all-out effort for her not to swoon away? Or had he truly meant them?

He couldn’t really love her, could he? And what did love really mean anyway? He had made it very clear that he wanted the freedom and independence of a life apart from her. He did not seem to be the sort who would choose to actually depend on anyone.

There was a light tap at the door, and it opened with a small creak. It was he.

She tried to sit up.

He came forward. “No, don’t move. I don’t want to disturb your rest, Esme. But I brought you a little tea. Your mother told me you had very little to eat.”

“I like it better when you call me March,” she said.

“All right,” he said with a smile, “March.”

He placed the tray on the side table and rearranged the pillows without any of the finesse of a true nurse. He then drew up a chair, placed the tray on his lap and plucked three lumps of sugar and plopped them into the dish of tea. It warmed her heart that he had obviously noticed how she liked her tea.

He waved away her hand and placed the cup to her lips. “Drink,” he said simply.

The tea was cold, but she drank it all, slowly and in silence.

“Your easel, and paints, and canvases are all recovered,” he said.

She took the cup from his tense fingers and placed it on the saucer. “It wasn’t worth it,” she replied.

“What wasn’t worth it?”

“My things. That maze is far too dangerous.”

He didn’t reply.

“You retrieved them, didn’t you?” She examined his handsome face.

“It was not so very difficult when Verity gave me the map.”

She closed her eyes. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I should have told someone where I was going.”

“Where were you going?”

“Verity had told me once a long time ago that there was a lovely sculpture garden in the center of the maze. I wanted to see it and maybe paint it.” She bowed her head. “But I detest dramatics. And I am so sorry to have caused everyone such worry.”

“Ah,” he said, with a small smile that revealed only the edges of his teeth. “Now you know precisely how I felt after that storm.”

“Did you feel this embarrassed?”

“And much worse, I assure you. But you have nothing to be embarrassed about. You follow directions well, and you did not cry. I wish I could say the same.”

She started to smile but it hurt her face.

“Are you ready to sleep a little?”

“Of course,” she answered without meaning it.

He examined her face carefully. “You know, you are going to have to stop doing that with me.”

“What do you mean?”

“You are going to have to stop agreeing to everything and causing the least amount of trouble for everyone.”

She couldn’t respond.

“You can do that to everyone else—especially your mother, who I never would have imagined could be so worried given her good humor. But with me, March, you are going to have to be yourself.”

“How ridiculous,” she murmured. “You are speaking of simple courtesy. One must show courtesy at all times or we are nothing but wild animals.”

His eyes darkened. “Perhaps, I might like to see the wild animal from time to time. The one I saw the night we met.”

She held his gaze, transfixed.

“But now is not the time,” he said gently, once more. He stood up and placed the tray on the long table. “Would you like for me to read to you a bit?” He picked up the book about art in Vienna.

“Not really,” she replied.

“Good,” he said, moving next to her bed again. “What would you like, then?”

It was so hard to tell him. She forced herself to remember his words and hoped he had meant at least a small part of them at the time. She hated asking him or anyone for anything. “I should like it if you would sleep beside me.”

“Ah,” he murmured. “Very good. Not even one word suggesting that you would only like it if it did not inconvenience me. Which it very much does not by the way.”

He crossed to the door and locked it, then returned to her, removing his watch and fob along the way. He placed them carefully beside the tray, and slowly, but in that efficient manner of his, removed his clothes with the exception of his unbuttoned, nearly translucent linen shirt.

He looked at her for a long moment before he pinched out the candle near her bed. In the darkened room, his deep voice comforted her. “Don’t move, March. I’m going to crawl in on the other side.”