The Duke's Holiday (33 page)

She thought she heard the sound of breaking twigs behind
them, but she didn’t dare turn around to see if they were being pursued. She
concentrated on keeping upright. Her senses swam, the forest little more than a
blur of green and brown and shifting shadows, the prickling of brambles and
sharp leaves brushing her legs and arms.

Someone shouted behind them – Lightfoot – and
her heart nearly leapt out of her chest. Montford’s grip tightened around her
arm, and he practically dragged her onwards, down a sharp incline, over a
creekbed. They stumbled up a gully, her knees scraping against stone and fallen
limbs, her hands rubbed raw from the bark of trees and the sharp rocks jutting
from the loam. On and on they went, until she lost all track of time and place.

They reached a pine forest, the ground covered in a blanket
of brown, rotting needles. Their footsteps swished and crunched, breaking the
stillness surrounding them, sending birds squawking into the treetops, betraying
their every movement.

She risked a glance over her shoulder but could not see any
signs of pursuit. Her anxiety eased only fractionally. They were far from being
out of danger. And she shouldn’t have tried to turn. Her head spun, tilting the
world around her on its axis. She stumbled over a tree root, her legs flying
out from beneath her.

Montford gripped her tightly and spun around to catch her
with his other arm. He held her tightly against his chest. He was hot and damp,
his heart thumping erratically against her cheek. He smelled terrible, but she
didn’t mind.

He set her from him and studied her face, his expression
impenetrable. “Can you continue?”

She nodded wearily.

His brow furrowed, his mouth pinched into a grim line. He
turned from her and tucked his arm around her waist, half-carrying her. She
hated being so weak, she hated having to rely on him, but she had no choice.
She was too weary and broken to protest.

He lifted her over a fallen tree, tucked her against him,
and continued onwards.

“I don’t suppose you know where you’re going,” she said.

He snorted. “Of course not. East? We are bound to figure
out something eventually.”

It was a question more than a statement. She heard the anxiety
in his voice. He had no idea what he was doing. She should have been more
alarmed than she was. They were lost in a forest in the middle of nowhere, a
lunatic pursuing them, and nothing to aid them but their wits. But the further
they went with no sign of being overtaken, the less she worried. She was free
of Lightfoot, and that was all that mattered.

Montford had come for her. And they were bound to figure
out something, just as he said. She allowed herself to hope, and to dream of
the life she had thought she had lost forever.

And gradually, those dreams overtook her awareness and
sucked her into oblivion.

MONTFORD
WAS not certain how long they had been in the forest. It felt like years. Hours
had passed, for the sun was now behind them, their shadows lengthening, the
forest steadily dimming. He’d noticed no sign of pursuit and could only hope
their trail had been lost. The henchman, at the very least, would be in
difficulties with a shot through his arm.

Montford’s own ankle was throbbing, along with the rest of
his body. He didn’t know how he had managed to make it this far, much less haul
Astrid alongside of him. She was no pocket Venus, and she was in even worse
shape than he, relying upon him to support most of her weight.

He now realized that he was supporting
all
of her weight. Her feet were dragging behind her, her head
hanging low. He stopped and tilted her head up. Her eyes were closed, her face
drained of color. She had fainted on her feet, and he had not even noticed.

He carried her to the base of a large knotted oak, ignoring
his aching limbs, and set her down in the crook of one of its roots. He patted
her uninjured cheek in an effort to rouse her.

Very slowly, she came around, her eyes fluttering open
– or at least one of them. She tried to sit up, but he urged her back
down. The knot on her head was worrying. He’d seen Marlowe sustain a similar
injury in a tavern brawl, and it had laid him low for a week.

Montford sat down next to her, pulling her against his side
to conserve their warmth. Now they had stopped moving, he was aware of the
chill in the air.

He stared up at the darkening sky with a sinking heart. It
would be a cold night. Yet another obstacle he had not considered. He’d not slept
outside since he’d been a boy and he and Sherbrook had decided to run away to
the Barbados. They’d left Harrow on foot and spent the night just outside a
small village on the border of Kent. They’d given up by the next morning,
Sherbrook having lost interest in the idea, and Montford having nearly passed
out at the wrinkles in his clothes after a night spent under the stars. He’d
not cared for the experience.

His ten-year-old self would have fainted if he saw his
present dishabille. But the last thing he needed to start fretting about right
now was his toilette. It was amazing how a brush with death – several
brushes, at that – put the state of one’s cravat in perspective. Now all
he wanted was a warm bed, a meal, and Lightfoot’s head on a platter.

“We must keep going,” Astrid murmured. She tried once more
to sit up. He stopped her, putting his arms around her shivering shoulders,
drawing her head down to his chest. He could feel her go rigid, then slowly
relax in his embrace.

“Rest for a while,” he said, cradling her head, running his
hands over her knotted hair. He didn’t think once about untangling it or taming
it into submission. All he could think about was comforting her, giving her his
warmth. She was very cold. But he didn’t think she should sleep. If she had a
concussion, she needed to stay awake. He knew that much.

“Don’t sleep, Astrid. You must stay awake.”

“I am very tired.”

“You are concussed. If you sleep, you might not wake up.”

She made no response to this. He feared she’d lost
consciousness again until she spoke. “Do you think we’ve lost them?”

“I don’t know.”

She shifted weakly in his arms so that she could look at
him. He tried not to focus on her swollen eye and bruised cheek. It was too
upsetting. “Thank you for coming for me,” she said.

He looked ahead, clenching his jaw.

She must have seen something in his expression, for she
stiffened and frowned. “I know what you’re thinking, and you’re probably right.
I deserved this …”

His temper snapped. “Of course you didn’t deserve this! How
could you think that? And that I would think such a … Damnation, none of this
is your fault.”

She looked surprised, but far from relieved. Her eyes grew
damp, and she turned her head, attempting to hide her tears. “I wish I could
believe it. But I should have guessed Lightfoot would try something. He’s …
unbalanced.”

“That, my dear Miss Honeywell, is the biggest
understatement I have ever heard.”

She tried to laugh, but shivered instead. He tightened his
hold on her shoulders. He felt her tense again, as if she feared his touch.
Perhaps she did. After the nightmare she’d suffered, it would be hard to let
anyone touch her. It made him sick. Astrid Honeywell was not supposed to be
afraid of anyone.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he growled, sounding irritated
to his ears, although all he felt was a dark misery.

“I know.”

“You’re cold. I’m trying to help.”

“Yes, I know,” she insisted, sounding irritated herself.

“He beat you.” God, he didn’t want the details, but he
needed them.

“Just a little. He never managed … well, let’s just he
hadn’t the time or the
vigor
to do
much before you came along.”

He sighed in relief.

She brought a hand up to her face and poked at her
injuries, wincing. “But it
was
most
unpleasant.”

“Well,” he grumbled, “you look terrible. Your eye’s all
puffy, and you’ve a knot on your head the size of an apple.”

“Thank you,” she bit out tartly. “I am glad to know I look
a fright. It makes me feel so much better.”

He pulled them to their feet, despite the protest of his
body. The day was waning, and night’s chill would soon be upon them. “We must
find shelter,” he said. “Astrid, you must keep moving, for just a little while
longer.”

She nodded bleakly, and they set off again. He tried to
keep the sun behind him so that they moved east. Perhaps it was a mistake, for
he saw no end in sight to the forest. But he would rather move in one
direction, than meander about in circles. He only hoped they encountered some
sign of life before nightfall. For all he knew, they could walk straight into
the ocean without meeting another living soul, they were that far away from
civilization.

After a while, Astrid could no longer hold herself up. He
hauled her into his arms and carried her, her added weight making his swollen
ankle throb and the muscles in his arms burn. By the time he stumbled into the
clearing and saw the small, rotting hovel outlined in the gray-green dusk
light, he was so exhausted and hungry and aching he was near to tears. A few
actually slid down his face when he realized that he’d found them shelter, poor
as it was.

It must have been a hunting cabin long ago, or a
caretaker’s hut, but now it was little more than a ruin, its windows long gone,
its roof half torn off, weeds and vines climbing its walls. Inside, the floor
was made of dirt and the interior walls were splotched with damp. An odor of
mold and old fires hung in the air, and an animal seemed to have built a nest
in the fireplace. He could see the night sky through the slats in the roof. It
was the most revolting place he’d ever entered.

He blocked out these horrifying details and made straight
for the bed. It was little more than a straw-stuffed pallet, and he shuddered
to think what lived inside the mattress, or what manner of vermin had pattered
across the moth-ridden blankets piled on top.

But it
was
a
shelter of sorts. Already the temperature had plummeted, and his teeth were
chattering. He’d never been so cold in all his life.

He pulled back the blankets and tucked Astrid’s legs
inside. She murmured something in her sleep and turned on her side, her fiery
hair falling across the tick. She brought her hands up beneath her chin, and
his heart wrenched at the sight of the black bruises at her wrists. All of his
irritation faded as he watched her sleep, and he vowed he’d never let anyone
hurt her again.

He didn’t even consider the morality of it as he slid into
the bed next to her, wrapping his body around her back, pulling the blankets up
over both of them. He was too cold and tired. He never even thought about how
lushly rounded her backside felt against his hips, or how he could feel the
curve of her breasts where his arm held her. He never even thought about how
perfect she felt, nestled against him, or how fiercely grateful he was that she
was alive and untouched, and in his arms. He never even thought about kissing
her.

But he did, almost unconsciously. He kissed the back of her
head, his lips brushing against her spiraling, lavender-scented curls, then
drifted off into a deep, dreamless sleep.

IN WHICH
THE DUKE – AND MISS HONEYWELL – VALIANTLY RESIST TEMPTATION

THE
SUN returned swiftly, and so did his reason – after a time. He seemed to
have just closed his eyes for the night when he blinked them open again and
found sunlight pouring in from the slats in the rooftop, gilding Astrid’s hair,
illuminating the dust motes that danced in the air and the metallic sheen of a
fly’s wings as it swooped in lazy circles overhead.

For a moment, he didn’t know where he was or how he had
come to be there. All he knew was that he was wrapped around Astrid Honeywell,
using her hair for a pillow, his left arm thrown across her breasts. He was
warm – sweltering, in fact – with the weight of the mildewed
blankets set across them, and the heat of her body pressed up against his. He
was distantly aware of aching muscles and hunger, but only very distantly. He
felt too wonderful at the moment to bother with such unimportant details. All
he was aware of was the heat and smell and soft, lush feel of a woman in his
arms.

The
woman. The
one he’d wanted with an urgency he’d never known before.

Apparently, he’d gotten what he wanted.

Pity he didn’t remember it. Strange, in fact. He’d not
thought he’d forget bedding Astrid Honeywell.

Unless he was drunk.

He vaguely remembered having drunk quite a lot in the very
recent past. And he knew that she had been somehow to blame.

No matter
, he
thought blearily. He’d simply have her again, now that he had his wits about
him.

He let his hand trail over her hip, up her side, and over
the edge of her breast. She was wearing clothes, which was most odd.
Nevertheless he could feel the heat of her body burn into his palm and travel
up his arm, down his body, and settle in his groin. She stirred, rubbing her
backside up against him, and he was instantly hard. Painfully so. He groaned
out loud and ground his hips against her, burying his nose in her hair. The
scent of it inflamed him, made him grow even harder. God, he wanted her. He
wanted to melt into her luscious warmth.

She shifted against him again and murmured something in her
sleep.

But the sound of her voice broke his illusion. Memory
surged back in an instant, and the pain of his erection was all but forgotten.

He was on his feet in the blink of an eye, his head
spinning, his stomach twisting in self-loathing. He scowled down at the bulge
in his breeches, breathing hard, clenching his fists. He glanced around him at
the dilapidated hovel, the moss on the walls, and the animal droppings at his
feet. His gaze settled on Astrid’s sleeping form. The swelling in her eye had
subsided, leaving it black and blue around the edges. Her cheek was shadowed
with bruising, her hair loose, tangled with leaves and twigs. She turned on her
back, her arm falling over the place he had occupied. He could see the black
ring around her wrist, the dried blood covering the wounds where the rope had
chafed her raw.

He choked on the bile that rose in his throat. He was an
animal, no better than the beast who had done this to her. How could his body
– and his mind – respond so traitorously? And he wanted her still.
He was aching with frustrated need. It would not go away. He did not know how
long he stood there, watching her, wanting, despite all of his reason, to touch
her, return to the pallet and cover her with his body.

But that would never do. What was he thinking? That he’d
rescue her from ruination so that he might ruin her himself?

Sickened by his body’s mutiny, he turned from her and
stumbled out the door of the shack. He shielded his eyes against the early
morning glow and started across the clearing. He needed some distance from her
to clear his head and somehow chop off the damned third leg he’d suddenly
sprouted. He had few options. Directly ahead, there was forest. To his right,
forest. To his left, more forest.

He spun around, chose the first option, and stalked off
into the undergrowth.

He half-slid down an embankment and found himself at the
edge of a massive riverbed. The water sparkled in the sunlight, lapping lazily
over large boulders. He crouched down and ran his fingers through the current.
The water was ice cold.

He, however, was on fire.

He sat down on the bank and tugged off his boots.

He needed a good bath anyway.

ASTRID
CAME awake to find herself staring at blue sky peeking through a hole in the
ceiling. She was cocooned in warm blankets, and her face bathed in sunglow. She
didn’t remember her dreams, but she knew instinctively they had been good. The
sense of being held in strong arms, caressed and comforted, still lingered. She
had not been afraid.

She was not afraid now, even though she probably should be.
Her wounds ached, her body still exhausted despite having slept so deeply. The
terror of the past few days was not easily put aside. But all things
considered, she was in a surprisingly good mood.

Because she was safe. And Montford was with her.

Or he had been. She stretched languidly and sat up,
glancing around unfamiliar surroundings. She didn’t remember coming here last
night, which was probably for the best. The room looked as if it hadn’t had an
occupant since the previous century other than animals. And they were generally
thought poor housekeepers.

She didn’t even want to imagine what must have been living
in the blankets that now covered her.

She pulled herself up off the pallet and onto her feet. She
took stock of her person. She was filthy, of course, and her favorite pelisse
was likely destined for the dustbin. Her extremities were sore, and her wrists
stung from where the ropes had dug into her flesh. Her face hurt like the
devil, but the world was no longer spinning around her.

She was alive, however.

Alive and very hungry. She could not recall the last time
she’d had a meal.

She searched the small cabin for signs of food, pulling
open cabinets and drawers, surprising a family of mice in one of them. She found
nothing edible, of course. Not that she’d expected to. But she did manage to
find an old, moth-eaten wool jacket. It was not the sort of thing Montford
would normally wear, but maybe he’d appreciate having something more
substantial than that grubby old lawn shirt he’d been galavanting around in
since the race.

The day was clear, and the sun was warm, but it was mid-October.
She was even growing a bit chilled now that she was no longer under the
blankets.

She draped the jacket over her arm and went to the door of
the cabin, peering outside. She could see nothing but trees.

A prickle of apprehension went through her. Where was
Montford? He had been here not long since, hadn’t he? She’d felt him nearby all
through the night, even though she’d been deep in sleep. His arms had held her,
had been the source of her dreams. Surely she hadn’t imagined it all.

She would not panic.

She went outside and called out for him. She waited and
received no response. Her apprehension ratcheted up.

He wouldn’t have left her. After all the bother he’d gone
through to save her, he’d not abandon her now.

Though he
had
seemed rather irritated yesterday. Even when he’d held her so tenderly, she
sensed the anger in him. He’d not been happy about having been thrust into a
situation that he no doubt thought beneath his dignity.

For all she knew, he could have thought his duty to her was
dispatched. He had no liking for her and would not want to linger in her
company. He’d seen her safely away from Lightfoot, but he’d let her make her way
back to Rylestone Hall on her own.

No, no. He was an honorable man.

For the most part.

He would not do such a thing.

Perhaps he’d gone out to relieve himself. Even Dukes had to
answer the call of nature.

But maybe he’d gotten turned around. There wasn’t much in
the way of landmarks around them. She began to panic in earnest. No doubt he’d
gotten himself mauled by some forest creature or stuck in a bog. Such things
happened. More likely, however, was the possibility that he was walking in
aimless circles through the dense undergrowth. Montford didn’t seem the type to
know his way around the countryside.

He’d nearly fainted at the sight of the sheep in Rylestone
Green.

Astrid made her way through the forest, calling his name
intermittently. She picked her way down a small incline and heard the rush of
water up ahead. A stream. She licked her lips involuntarily, thirst overcoming
all else. She followed a narrow deer track down to the water’s edge and bent
down to cup her hands in the swiftly flowing water.

The sound of a splash drew her gaze upwards, and she froze,
her eyes nearly popping out of her head.

Montford. He was on his back, floating in a deep pool
formed by a pair of large rocks. And he was…

Naked.

She swallowed once, twice. Her legs lost their footing, and
her backside crashed onto the riverbank. She could not have run away, or looked
away, for all the tea in China. His close-cropped chestnut hair fanned out from
his skull, floating on top of the lapping water, shimmering like sheets of
hammered bronze in the sunlight. His long, muscular arms were extended from his
sides, gently treading through the water. His naked flesh was the color of
spring honey, pale and rich and unblemished. She could see the ridge of his
torso, the bands of muscle gathered on his abdomen. Droplets of water shone
like tiny diamonds, caught in the small thatch of dark hair that curled at his
chest, faded out over his flat stomach, then began again, lower, between the
jutting bones of his hips … and lower still.

She gasped and blinked and tried to avert her eyes.

He must have heard her, for his head came up and his eyes
widened. He paled, and then he blushed to the roots of his hair. He thrashed
about in the water, submerging his lower half, for which she was both
profoundly grateful and terribly disappointed. He found his footing and stood
in the stream, water sluicing down his face, over his torso. He was exposed to
her from the waist up, his hands on his hips, his eyes blazing.

“What are you
doing
?”
he practically yelped.

She couldn’t form words. Her gaze was riveted on his
abdomen, her pulse racing. She’d not had a lot of experience with naked men,
but she suspected that Montford’s body was just about as perfect as they came.
He was all lean, hard, chiseled masculinity.

Something strange and frightening and blazing hot burned
through her veins and pooled between her legs, taking the breath from her body.
Her face was seared by a fierce blush that had nothing to do with
embarrassment. For a wild, glorious moment, she considered jumping into the
stream and pitching herself into his arms. She wanted to
feel
him, not just look at him.

His eyes widened even more by whatever it was he saw in her
face, and he sank a little lower in the water. “For God’s sake, go away!” he
barked out.

She shook her head to clear it, but that didn’t work. With
great effort and immense regret, she tore her eyes away from his flesh and
stared at the bushes to her left.

“I … I’m thirsty,” she said lamely. Her voice sounded like
gravel.

She heard him splashing about. “Then drink, damn you!” he
hissed.

His harsh tone snapped her out of her daze. With shaky
hands, she scooped up the stream water and drank, not daring to look up at him.
The water was freezing – how did he stand it? – but it did little
to assuage the burning heat of her body.

Shame clawed its way through her confused emotions. Shame
and anger. She’d not meant to spy on him, but he had no call to be so mean to
her. She’d just been thirsty and frightened out of her wits that he was lost. To
her utter humiliation, tears burned at the back of her eyes. “I thought you
were lost.”

More splashing. “Well, I’m not, as you can see.”

“Or that you’d left me.”

He made no response to this. She risked a glance in his
direction. He was staring at her, his hands clenched into fists on top of the
water. His face was as rigid as the boulders around him, but his eyes were
bright silver and flooded with a thousand emotions, very few of which she
recognized.

Then his shoulders sagged. Something softened in his face,
and he sighed. He brought a hand up and raked his fingers through his wet hair,
causing it to stand on end.

He looked ridiculous. And utterly enticing.

The heat rose inside of her again, knocking her off balance
once more. She climbed to her feet and turned away from him. She heard him
moving through the water and climbing onto the bank.

“Don’t turn around,” he said.

“Of course I’m not going to turn around,” she said,
irritated and confused and itching to do just that.

Clothes rustled, he grumbled underneath his breath.
Something thudded in the soft earth.

“Are you decent?” she asked with impatience.

He snorted. “I’m clothed, if that’s what you’re asking,” he
retorted.

She spun around. He was sitting on the riverbank in his
trousers and torn lawn shirt, snapping his stockings against his knee. They
were stiff with dirt and dried blood. She stared down at his bare feet, and her
breath hitched. The soles were covered in a mass of angry, raw gashes and
blisters.

Without thinking, she rushed to his side and dropped down
beside him, lifting his foot into her lap.

He drew back from her as if stung and glared at her.

“You look like you’ve been walking on glass, Montford,” she
scolded.

He tugged on one stocking with a jerk, wincing. “Not glass.
Rocks. Twigs. God knows what else.”

“Oh, yes, the race.”