The Duke's Holiday (15 page)

There had been days and days of those eyes, and the blood,
and the stink of death.

Montford forced his eyes open again, forced the nightmare
back down, but it went unwillingly, clawing at the recesses of his mind like a
rabid beast refusing to be put in its cage.

He was going to be sick.

Miss Honeywell put a hand to his cheek. It was warm and
gentle and infinitely comforting. His nausea subsided.

“Montford,” she murmured.

With great effort, he sat up. Her hand fell away, though
some part of him wished it had remained. He took a shuddering breath and
attempted to take stock of his injuries. He felt bruised and shaken, but he
wasn’t shot. “I’m uninjured,” he managed.

Relief flooded her face, and she sat back on her heels,
wiping her cheeks with her sleeve.

“Good gads, man,” came a voice over their heads. He raised
his glance to Sir Wesley/Mr. Honeywell, who was staring at him in alarm. “Are
you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“But the blood, man, the blood!” the gentleman exclaimed,
indicating his shirtfront, his features puckering with apprehension.

Montford cringed and refused to look down. “I don’t think
it’s mine.”

Miss Honeywell’s face contorted with renewed anguish, and
she climbed to her feet. “Cyril!”

She ran towards the fallen horse, over which two laborers
stood, shaking their heads grimly.

Montford staggered to his feet and followed after her. It
was clear the gelding was done for. His neck was snapped at an odd angle, and
no air worked in his massive chest. A dark patch of blood stained his side and
pooled onto the grass beneath his lifeless body. Montford schooled himself not
to swoon at the sight.

Miss Honeywell threw herself over the horse, sobbing
violently. He turned away. He must have looked unsteady on his feet, for Sir
Wesley clutched him under the elbow. Montford did not pull away. There was too
much blood, and his head was still spinning.

“Damned shame. Damned bloody shame,” Sir Wesley muttered.
“A foul business.”

A man appeared at the top of the ridge. He was large,
dressed in tweed, with a pipe sticking out the corner of his mouth. He bit out
several colorful oaths as he saw the carnage before him, and lumbered down the
hill. The large man pulled the pipe out of his scowling mouth, a harsh furrow
slashing between his bushy brows. “Wot’s happened here?” he demanded in a thick
Scottish burr.

“Foul business, Mr. McConnell,” Sir Wesley babbled. Montford
gritted his teeth. Sir Wesley was no help.

The Scot turned his attention to Montford. He took his
measure in one swift, intelligent glance, and nodded. “Duke,” he said, without
an ounce of deference.

Not that Montford cared at the moment. “Someone shot at me.
As you can see, his aim claimed my mount instead.”

The Scot’s lips thinned to a harsh line. “Aye. An’ what
makes ye so sure it were ye an’ not the poor beastie the bullet was intending
to hit?”

Montford was all astonishment and affront. Or as much as he
could be under the circumstances. “Oh, I don’t know. Common sense. Intuition?
It hardly signifies, however, as the result was doubtless the same either way.
‘Twas only blind luck that saved me from breaking my neck,” Montford said in as
calm a voice as he could manage.

The Scot looked unconvinced, but Montford decided not to
argue with the man.

Miss Honeywell’s sobs broke into his consciousness once
more, and his heart twisted painfully in his chest. He hated the sound of her
despair, hated his own weakness that prevented him from offering her some
comfort – even though in the back of his mind he could almost believe
that she had something to do with this business. If she wasn’t so distraught
over the gelding, leading him to reason with what little wits he had left that
she would never do anything to endanger the animal, he wouldn’t have put it
past her to arrange his assassination.

He turned his head and glimpsed her kneeling by the horse,
cradling his head in her lap, her shoulders trembling, and his heart flipped
over again.

No, he could not believe she’d arranged this.

But someone had.

He turned back to Sir Wesley and Mr. McConnell and tried to
manage an authoritative scowl. “Should one of you aid the lady?”

Sir Wesley looked startled and bounded forward. “Yes, yes
of course.”

Mr. McConnell held Sir Wesley back by the arm. “She’ll be
wantin’ her sister. Why doan ye take yerself back to the castle and prepare
Alice?”

Sir Wesley looked confused but agreeable to this plan.

Mr. McConnell went to Miss Honeywell’s side and knelt down.
Montford heard her sob, “Oh, Hiram!”, then pitch herself into the Scotsman’s
embrace.

“I’ll ride back to the castle, then,” Sir Wesley said,
climbing the hill. He hesitated and turned to Montford. “Shall you come?”

Montford was rooted in place. The strangest feeling had
come over him when he saw Miss Honeywell fall against the Scotsman’s chest.
He’d felt physical pain. Anguish. He’d have done anything to exchange places
with the man, as ludicrous as that seemed. He remembered her gentle, warm hand
on his cheek when she had roused him from his faint.

And yesterday, when she had lain beneath him, so soft, so
eager.

“No,” he heard himself saying. “I think I’ll stay.”

Sir Wesley looked surprised, but continued on his way.

Montford stood with the two laborers in uncomfortable
silence as Miss Honeywell continued to cry. Mr. McConnell patted her back with
one hand and drew his pipe up to his mouth at intervals to take a puff,
occasionally glancing down at the gelding and shaking his head in disapproval
or offering some stiff word of comfort.

Somehow, Montford found solace that McConnell didn’t seem
to be besotted with the chit.

Eventually, the man succeeded on coaxing Miss Honeywell to
her feet and taking her by the shoulders. “There, there, lass, it ain’t like ye
to go on so. Pull yerself together, there’s a lass.”

Miss Honeywell snuffled into a rough handkerchief McConnell
produced from his pocket and dabbed at her eyes. “It’s just such a … a shock,
Hiram. Cyril … my lovely, lovely Cyril.”

Montford’s heart once again clenched in his chest. She had
loved the horse, and, as unlikely as it seemed, sincerely loved the name.

“’Aye, ‘tis a great shame. Fine bit of horseflesh he were.
Now come away from this place, ‘tain’t no good to wallow in yer miseries.”

Miss Honeywell looked towards the felled horse and
McConnell tucked her under his arm and led her away gently but firmly. “Come
on, lass. Dunna look back at such horrors.”

Miss Honeywell expelled a shaky breath and allowed herself
to be guided up the slope. Montford followed in their wake. McConnell barked
out orders at the laborers to fetch a cart, and the two men departed in the
direction of the brewery. Then he led Miss Honeywell in the direction of her
mount, which had wandered across the lane, prancing nervously about, as if
sensing trouble in the air.

McConnell seized the mare’s reins and soothed her in the
same gruff manner he’d soothed Miss Honeywell.

Montford turned his attention back to Miss Honeywell. She’d
stopped crying, but her eyes were puffy, her skin mottled from her tears. She
blew her nose into the handkerchief in a very unladylike manner and squared her
shoulders. She could not meet his eye. Montford reached out to pat her shoulder
or perhaps touch her hand, something to comfort her, but he let it drop to his
side.

What was he thinking?

McConnell guided the mare in their direction, but Miss
Honeywell could not look at the creature either, as if the sight of it was too
painful.

“I suggest ye take the Princess back to the stables, let us
take care of the …” McConnell coughed into his hand.

“Corpse,” Miss Honeywell provided in a remarkably even
tone.

McConnell nodded.

Miss Honeywell made a vague gesture of acquiescence, but
made no move to grab the reins McConnell offered her. Montford grabbed them
instead.

“I … I saw something,” Miss Honeywell said.

McConnell’s eyes flashed with alertness.

“In the wood,” she said, pointing into the thick foliage
next to them. “The shooter. About fifty paces in. I saw him run into the
forest.”

“Did ye see who it were, lass?”

She shook her head. “No. He was tall. He wore a dark green
coat.”

Montford exchanged grim looks with McConnell. “It seems
someone wished to do me harm,” he said. “I cannot believe this was an
accident.”

“Aye, ye’ve the right of it,” McConnell acknowledged.

“Who, I wonder, would wish me dead?”

McConnell removed the pipe from his mouth and fixed
Montford with a steady, slightly wry expression. “I reckon nigh on everyone in
the county, Yer Grace.”

“That certainly narrows it down,” he muttered.

“No one would dare,” Miss Honeywell insisted. “No one from
the estate, surely. Murdering you would hardly be in their best interest. The
authorities would think that I … I had something to do with it, and then the
estate would be seized …” She turned to him, wide-eyed. “You don’t think I
would do such a thing!”

“The thought had crossed my mind,” he allowed.

She looked indignant. McConnell looked fairly murderous.

“Of course I don’t think you arranged this,” he finished.
“But someone did. Do you have any idea who might have done this?”

McConnell and Miss Honeywell looked at each other, and some
mutual idea seemed to pass between them, rousing Montford’s suspicions. But
they shook their heads and stared at the ground.

“You two suspect someone,” Montford insisted.

McConnell fixed him with a hard look that said he would be
answering no more questions. “The pair of ye’ve had a fright. And ye, Yer
Grace, be out of sorts from yer fall. Go on back to the castle an’ repair
yerselves. I’ll see to what’s left and go into the forest for a look ‘round.
Whoe’er did the deed is come and gone by now, but I’ll see what can be done.”

After he’d made sense of the Scot’s brogue, Montford
started to protest, but the pain in his head left him dizzy, and the smell of
blood left him weak. He decided to heed the man’s advice. “You’ll come and
report to me when you’ve completed your work,” Montford said.

McConnell’s eyes narrowed at the implicit command. “Aye,
Yer Grace.”

“Good.” He turned to Miss Honeywell. “Shall I help you up?”

“I think I’ll walk. I have no desire to ride at the
moment.”

“Neither do I,” he said wryly.

McConnell left them, and they started down the lane. He
held the mare’s reins and leaned his right arm against her shoulders as he
walked, not yet trusting his own legs.

They were silent for a very long time, Miss Honeywell
trudging at his side, her face downcast so he could not read her expression. He
cleared his throat and searched for the right words. “I am very sorry this
happened. Please believe I did everything I could to turn Cyril.”

She made some noise at his side, and he feared she was
crying again.

Dear God.

But when he looked at her, he saw she was smiling bleakly.
“You cannot blame yourself. I cannot even blame you. Besides, I think he would
have died either way.”

“Foul business,” he muttered, then cringed when he realized
he was mimicking Sir Wesley’s insipidity.

“I would not want you dead. I may wish you to the devil,
but it is supposed to be metaphorical,” she assured him.

“Likewise.”

“I had nothing to do with this,” she insisted in a
defensive voice. “I hope you believe me.”

He stopped walking, which made her stop as well.

“Miss Honeywell, I do believe you.”

She looked at her boots. “Thank you.” Then she looked up at
his face searchingly. “You
are
terribly
banged up.”

“I feel banged up.”

She reached out and dabbed at his temple with her
handkerchief. He leaned against the mare and let her gentle touch soothe his
aching head. At length, she pulled away and presented him with the evidence of
his wound, which soaked through the linen handkerchief.

He averted his glance and tried not to swoon. “Thank you,
Miss Honeywell,” he said tersely, resuming his stride.

“You’re welcome,” she said equally tersely, no doubt
baffled by his abruptness.

They walked on in strained silence.

“Just trying to help,” she muttered after several minutes
of obvious stewing.

“I said thank you, Miss Honeywell,” he repeated through his
teeth.

He heard her sniffle next to him and barely suppressed a
groan.

Surely she wasn’t crying.

But when he turned to her, he found her face wet with
tears, her nose bright red. Instead of annoyance, he felt sympathy well inside
of his untried heart – sympathy and something else that made him want to
reach out to her and squeeze her in his arms. He wanted to kiss her nose, even
if it was horribly red and dripping. He wanted to do a thousand inappropriate
things to her, even while she was in this dreadful state. It was utterly
inconceivable.

He had hit his head very hard.

“I’m not usually a watering pot,” she insisted, wiping her
cheeks with her sleeve, since the other one was ruined with his blood. “I’ve
not cried … oh, in years and years. Not since my mum…”

He offered her his handkerchief, which had somehow survived
the recent carnage, and she took it gratefully, blowing her nose into the
costly lace.

He would not want
that
back.

He searched around to find something comforting to say to
her, but he found nothing. Then a crazy thought struck him, and he blurted it
out before he could stop himself, even though it could not in any conceivable
way be considered consolatory. “My name is Cyril.”

She stopped blowing her nose and looked up at him,
startled. She lowered the handkerchief. “What?”