To Wed A Rebel (21 page)

When they were close enough, when the dance had barely begun, he claimed her hand and asked her, “What’s wrong?”

The sudden question had disarmed her, concerned her, judging by the small crease between her brows. The movements she made, in time with all the others around them, spared her from answering. A switch in partners had them separated, a brief reprieve until finally Isaac was before her once again, searching for an explanation.

Ruth replied with her own question: “Do you not like the dress?”

“It’s not that, I – it’s—”

“Nothing is the matter,” she said simply, firmly, with a smile that held no truth.

No sooner had the dance ended than a tall man, around Isaac’s age, managed to grasp his attention. A fellow he’d known from town as a boy, a clergyman now, who held a conversation for as long as it took to be introduced to Ruth and ask her to dance.

She hesitated, before Isaac gave her a nod, permission she never needed to ask for, not from him. Not when he had taken so much from her. He did not wish to encourage her, to send her away – he only did what he thought she wanted, and regretted it afterwards.

Just like that, she was taken from him.

Throughout the evening she was occupied by the wills of others, lost in conversations, dances, games, a shining beacon who drew everyone’s eye and charmed all with her calm and collected manner.

People spoke to Isaac, told him how lovely she was, as though he didn’t know it already. The rumours concerning their odd union were banished, for how could such talk be true of dear Mrs Roscoe? Lady Mawes was working in the background, spinning tales and adorning the girl with traits she did not possess, nor did she need.

It infuriated him.

This phoenix-coloured creature wore Ruth’s body, used her words and adopted her mannerisms, and yet seemed closer to that Lottie girl he’d met – Griswell’s insipid offspring. And Isaac noticed, as Ruth grew looser during the night, more unlike herself, that a glass was often at her lips.

No, that wasn’t his Ruth.

One man, a local earl with too much oil in his hair, tempted him with another boxing match. There’d be higher stakes and greater danger. He’d earn a lot, if he accepted. Isaac did, because the last time he’d risked his life like that, Ruth had been a little concerned, mad, upset with him – and anything was better than the usual cold indifference or the awkward silences. It was churlish, foolish, but he would not go back on his word now. And this way Ruth would spend time with him again, and he had liked having her near him, even if her touches were clinical and her company from duty, not affection.

The stars had long since come out when he finally cornered her, cheeks rosy, stood by the punch bowl with her various new friends. She laughed, carefree, though they were anything but.

“I thought you had sworn off wine?”

Ruth jumped at his approach and quickly cast her eyes downwards. “I do not believe I ever said that.”

“You didn’t have to say it; you haven’t touched it since…” He bit off his words and took her by the wrist, stopping her movement towards a new glass. “Not since the night that damn merchant tampered with you and now you’re – you’re drunk – and of your own volition.”

“I am not drunk yet and I know what I am doing,” she assured him, twisting her hand to grasp his.

“What is that exactly?”

“Let’s get a little air. I would like to go outside.”

Isaac’s eyebrows rose into his hairline. “You want me to go with you?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

There was an odd tilt to her voice as she led him outside, into the garden. The statues were pristine and phantom-like in the gloom. Their all-seeing eyes watched the couple’s progress.

“Where are we going?”

“Nowhere,” she assured him, taking in deep breaths, a tension in her small shoulders. “It’s pleasant out here, isn’t it?”

“Ruth,” said Isaac, dropping her hand, no longer able to hear the dim conversations from those inside the ballroom. Alone. A normal occurrence for any other husband and wife, yet unnatural to them. The music still found them, soft, muffled strains, as if heard from under water. “What is all this about?”

Of all she could have done in that moment, all Isaac could have expected, it was not what took place.

Ruth took a step towards him, a soft noise, her footfall light on the path, dress flowing like autumn leaves. Cautiously, she placed her gloved hands on Isaac’s chest, anchoring herself to him, before she angled her chin up to kiss him.

A small, quiet, hesitant action.

Isaac did not move. Stunned, taken aback, he kept his arms by his sides, as unwavering as the silent sculptures around them. When he did not pull back, she seemed to take it as encouragement, testing her mouth against his once more. He could taste the wine on her tongue and when he brought his hands up to take hers, he felt them shake.

She had her eyes closed, as though she did not wish to see him, to know him.

She wishes I were someone else,
he guessed.

With firm, unkind actions, Isaac pulled her fingers from him. “What are you doing?”

“I thought you – you are – we should have done this a long time ago.”

“Done
what,
Ruth?”

He studied her, unwavering, and not a little cruel.

“What a man and wife ought to do,” she countered, swallowing thickly, intoxication making her more candid, less abashed. “Isn’t that what you – what you want? Lady Mawes said—”

“You are working with her, now?” He should have known. It made sense. This was another plan to manipulate him and push him into a corner. “Is that what you think of me – what you
both
think of me?”

“I – I did not,” she faltered, arms around herself, but he couldn’t hear any more; he was done listening. “Isaac, it’s not like that.”

It was bad enough to have his own flesh and blood think he would take an unwilling woman to bed, let alone Ruth. To have her fear him like that,
expect
that, it – he couldn’t. And worse still, she’d had to descend into drink to even stomach the thought of him, of
being
with him. She had been shaking, she had been terrified and she still thought him a monster.

Isaac did not look back; he kept on walking through the ballroom. If he disturbed the dancing, he didn’t care. If he shouldered his way through the polite chatter, he offered no apology. The house’s layout was seared into his mind. He knew where the dining room was and where the port sat. He could recall Colin’s father drinking it, the parting words he’d offered, about honour and obligation and doing right by the Roscoe name. It had all been for his cousin’s benefit, or so he’d thought at the time. Now that forceful, stuffy, dry advice was repeated over and over in his head.

Lady Mawes did not let him rest for long.

“Do you want to explain to me what that was, Isaac Roscoe?” The door was closed firmly behind her, shutting them in silence together.

Isaac kicked a chair free from its home under the table, decanter in one hand, glass in the other. The old woman’s scowl deepened when he slumped in it, staring her down.

“What have you been saying to my wife?”

“Only what she needed to hear.”

Dark, blackish-purple stains peppered the woodwork. Isaac was not careful. He didn’t have to be. This wasn’t his property, wasn’t his house, wasn’t his drink – not yet.

“You told her to – to – that I wanted to—” He clamped his lips together, only letting the thick, sweet fortified wine pass through them. “You know what you told her.”

“I had assumed your tastes leaned that way, yes,” replied Lady Mawes, unperturbed by the direction their talk had strayed towards as she moved to the end of the long dining room table. “What’s wrong with the girl?”

“There is nothing
wrong
with her, for God’s sake,” he snapped. “She’s – she’s perfect.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“I do not force myself on those who are unwilling.”

Lady Mawes plucked a glass from the sideboard and took the decanter from her great-nephew’s unrelenting grip. “I never thought you did, Isaac.”

“Then why did you tell the girl—”

“Do you think Ruth despises you as much as you despise yourself?” Lady Mawes asked over her glass.

“I have ruined her life, I have taken everything from her, I have—”

The dining room door swung open. Jemima stood there, her thumb holding her place in a book, scruffy attire betraying how little she planned to partake in the evening’s entertainments.

“I was sat in the library—”

“Well that’s nothing new, dear,” interrupted Lady Mawes.

“It’s Ruth,” said Jemima, ignoring her great-aunt’s jibes. “She’s gone.”

Isaac stood up so quickly that he knocked his glass from the table, shards splintering against the floorboards, crunching under his boots. “Gone?”

“I heard someone run down the path alongside the house only half an hour ago,” said Jemima. “It’s a clear night. I did not think it was her until that clergyman asked about her, said she’d vanished into the garden and hadn’t returned.”

“She’ll be sulking in the grounds somewhere,” said Lady Mawes. “All women need time to themselves. No, Isaac – what are you doing?”

“I know where she’s going.”

“Where is that exactly?”

“Home.”

Isaac asked for no further details. He did not stop to answer his great-aunt’s questions; he did not listen to the harsh remarks that came his way as he headed straight for the stables.

Ruth did not know the landscape like he did.

She did not know the way back.

She did not know all that waited on the dark, country roads or how easy it was to lose oneself by the dangerous cliff edges. There were poachers, smugglers, wreckers and the magistrate’s men who often took the law into their own hands.

He had to find her before day broke – or else he feared he never would.

Chapter Fourteen

Ruth

She had been such a fool.

Of course Isaac would never see her in that way. Hadn’t Lottie always told her, quite frankly, the sort of woman she was? Cold, uninteresting, frigid. And yet tonight she’d felt – she’d hoped – oh, surely he must have considered her, if only for a second?

The sting of rejection brought tears to Ruth’s eyes – and she was angry for it, at herself, for ever showing such weakness. How could she face him after that? He had looked at her as though she were abhorrent, the very idea of her repulsive.

All the awkwardness she had felt at Miss Lamont’s Academy, the ill-placed air she’d adopted when conversing with her uncle’s business associates, the sense that she was and always would be overlooked – it all pooled together, balled up in her stomach, a tight, heavy feeling. She was only baggage, a piece of furniture – useful, but never wanted, never welcome.

The drink had given her courage, the attention she’d been given by others had buoyed her confidence, she had thought –
hoped
– that Isaac might – she didn’t know.

Woodland bordered Trewince Manor in a jagged, patchy line. It ran alongside fields, grew wider, thinner, a forest cut away by agriculture. It was tracked through with dizzying paths and when the trees thinned, she could see the way ahead. The walkways grew narrower and narrower, until they became rabbit trails that darted underground where she could not follow. If only she could. Wasn’t there a wood beside the farmhouse? Were they all connected? Wouldn’t this take her to it?

Ruth turned around and picked her way westward, or she thought it was westward, as she struggled to keep her dress from the gorse bushes. The lights from the big house were gone, blotted out – had they been to her left or her right? Where had Simms pointed to when he’d told her about the manor? It was an hour away – less than that. She’d walked farther before.

And she’d walk for an eternity if it pushed down the shame and humiliation that swam in her veins.

Isaac’s face, his words, his disgust.

She put her fingers to her lips, regretting that kiss, the brief elation she’d felt when she’d assumed he wanted her back. This explained why he had not even been able to look at her when they’d been alone together, why he always turned away when she undressed – and yes, it was all a gentleman
should
do and yet, she wanted…

God, she wanted to be wanted.

Just once, at least a little, in the same capacity she thought about him. Because she did think about him, too often, whenever he was close and whenever he wasn’t. If ever she heard him laugh, though such sounds were few and far between.

Ruth picked up her pace, drove herself on, her dancing shoes ruined now, powdered with dry dirt. A fox shrieked in the distance, the sound catching in the still air, stopping her heart for a moment. It had been a fox, hadn’t it? For a second it had sounded far more sinister: a woman’s cry, a shrill, panicked plea.

A quick wind, there one second, gone the next, touched her cheek and pulled a few wisps of hair loose to dance across her face. Within it she heard the ocean’s swell. If she found the coast, she could find her way back to the farmhouse; she could follow the route until she came across what was familiar.

The fields were stubble, already harvested. The crackling remnants of wheat grazed her ankles and cut her skin when she did not tread carefully enough. It was dark, but the trees and the hedges were even darker, smudges squatting on the horizon. All the shadows in the world had been netted together, boiled down and poured into the far-flung corners. The sea was ink. Ruth could taste it in the air, see its glittering, dark mass, hear the raging swell that seemed more ominous, more treacherous. The cliff edge and the scattered, safer routes to the beach were lost now amongst the long grass. One misstep could send her down and down and down.

Which way?

How long had she been running, walking, panting, driving herself on?

An hour? More?

It felt like seconds, minutes, since that shameful display in the garden. When she’d paced, patrolled, stepped in the places he’d stepped and told herself to go back inside but had not been brave enough to do so.

She knew this place. It was easy to recognise. She’d found it before at night, when leading Brye back to the farmhouse with a battered, unconscious Isaac. It wasn’t long now; she’d soon be able to see the building’s outline, the trees beside it.