The Earl's Captive Read online

  As she took careful steps on the rutted and icy country road, she felt alone, vulnerable and very scared. Daisy would report in the morning that she hadn't come to bed that night. People would search for her and, finding her missing, would they not check the house to see if any valuables had gone?

  You silly goose, she chided herself. Who would suspect a lady's-maid of stealing a set of house deeds? Jewels, yes, and money, too; maybe even clothes, but never a piece of paper that, as far as they knew, she would be unable to read. She felt sure it would be a long time before the loss of the deeds was discovered.

  Her second fear was that one of Hardcastle's guests might have a sudden impulse to leave at dead of night. The howling of the wind might muffle the sounds of an approaching carriage and this thought caused her to turn her head constantly and peer into the whiteness behind her. Nothing stirred, except the wind soughing in the hedges and branches.

  At times, her boots slipped on the icy ridges left by carriages, and at others, she sank ankle-deep into crunchy snow, the surface of which was frozen just hard enough to prick her ankles through her stockings.

  In spite of her stout footwear, her toes were soon so numb that she could no longer feel them, and she recalled tales she'd been told of walkers in the snow who, on removing their socks after their return, had found that their toes came off too, snapping like icicles. Lucy had no desire to lose her toes so she kept trying to curl them and uncurl them inside her boots, until numbing exhaustion prevented her.

  Soon, she was hardly conscious of moving at all. She seemed to glide, to drift like a ghost over the pallid landscape, weightless, ethereal. Soon she would dissolve and the wind would disperse her like smoke over the fields.

  “Mother!”

  Lucy suddenly saw Ann Swift's face a few inches in front of her own. She stretched out a hand, took a step forward and fell headlong into a drift that had piled up beneath a hedge. The sudden invasion of cold snow down her neck and up her sleeves brought her to her senses. She had been seeing visions, the kind that visited one in a fever, except Lucy knew she was suffering from the very opposite.

  If she gave in to the desire simply to lie in the softness of the snowdrift, wrap her cloak around her and go to sleep, she would freeze to death. A few years ago, one of her father's dogs had done that – wandered from its kennel to be found next day buried in a drift, a dog-shaped block of ice.

  No, she must carry on, warming herself if necessary with thoughts of Rory. She must really be feverish now, she realized, because she could hear Rory's voice calling her name. But he was dead and he was a ghost and maybe by now she was one, too.

  “Lucy … Lucy …”

  The repeated word – the word that described her but was strangely devoid of connotation now, just a meaningless sound – echoed and rang as if the very trees were chanting it. She put a hand to her face, but both hand and cheek were so cold that she could feel nothing. This must be death, this losing of one's senses and identity, this confused wandering in nothingness.

  Aaaah! What was that? Something touched her shoulder, seized it hard, shook it. She was a rabbit caught by a fox, too shocked even to squeal.

  “I have nothing to give you,” she whispered, too terrified even to turn round and face the thief or phantom who was accosting her.

  “That paper inside your bodice! Is that nothing?”

  It wasn't the voice of Rory, she was certain now. But whose was it? She did not recognize it at all.

  “Look at me, Lucy.”

  It was gently spoken but it was, nevertheless, an order. Lucy swivelled her eyes and encountered two candid green ones.

  “Adam! Wh-what are you doing here? How did you know I had left the Hall?” She stood speechless, shivering as she waited for him to reply and, in those seconds which felt like hours, realized just how cold and miserable she was.

  “I watched you.”

  Simple words, giving nothing away. How long had he been watching her, and for what reason?

  With as much delicacy as if he were handling priceless porcelain, he withdrew Lucy's left hand from inside her cloak, peeled off the sodden glove and proceeded to chafe her fingers between his own large, warm hands. The pain was agonizing as feeling returned to her numb digits.

  He repeated the process with her other hand and then, very gently, took her frozen face between his palms and pressed his lips against each cheek in turn, blowing softly to bring the life back into them. When this kind action was completed, he did not release Lucy's face straight away but approached her with his lips.

  “No, Adam!” She jerked her head away and pulled her cloak around her with a flounce. What was the matter with her? Why did every man she met want her and try to seduce her?

  And why was she so prone to desiring certain men? Was she by nature a wanton, a temptress, a slut destined to end her days in some low brothel?

  “I'm sorry. Forgive me.” Adam was standing before her, his hands clasped, his head bowed. “I didn't mean … I was just trying to warm you up so you wouldn't freeze to death. By God, what must you think of me?”

  Lucy had never heard a man sounding so apologetic about having done something which had, frankly, brought her a moment of pleasure. She stretched out a hand, touched his for an instant then returned it to her cloak.

  “There's nothing to forgive. Just tell me why you are here, and what you know.”

  “Let's walk. We'll both freeze if we keep standing still.”

  Taking her arm, Adam marched her briskly up the lane. His coat was roughly made from animal skins, sewn together with the hide outside and the fur inside, and a huge fur collar shielded his ears and face. A clump of light brown curls had tumbled over his eyes and he tossed his head like a pony, to resettle his mane.

  “Just a bit further on we'll come to a gate, from which there is a track leading to a farmhouse. We'll take shelter there.”

  Lucy followed him obediently. Although she had no idea where he was taking her, she would be glad of warmth and shelter, and she longed for a hot drink and something to eat.

  Soon, they reached the solid oak door of the farmhouse. Orange light glowed from a window. As Adam pushed open the door for her to enter, she noticed a line of hoof prints which passed the door and seemed to lead in the direction of the outbuildings.

  The welcoming wave of heat which enveloped her as she stepped over the threshold wiped all questions from her mind – until she saw the figure sprawled on a chair before the fire, highly polished boots propped on the fender.

  Although the head did not turn as she entered, that gleaming dark hair could belong to none other than … Lucy gave an involuntary gasp.

  The head turned and Philip Darwell's cool grey eyes swept her from head to toe.

  “A brandy for the girl!”

  “Certainly, sir. I'll fetch it straight away.”

  Lucy was astonished to hear Adam accept Philip's peremptory order as if he were his manservant. After a few moments, he returned bearing a tray with three glasses, two of them brimming and one, which he handed to Lucy, containing a more modest amount of the amber fluid.

  Lucy gratefully downed it and gave thanks for the instant warmth it produced in her body. The next moment she was mortified to hear her empty stomach emit a loud rumble.

  Philip laughed. “When did you last eat?” he inquired.

  “Not since yesterday, unless you count a few crumbs that wouldn't have been enough to keep a sparrow alive!”

  Her feeble joke was an attempt to lighten the atmosphere in the room, the neglected interior of which suggested that the house was seldom occupied. The air was thick with dust and she felt a tug of tension, though whether this was between herself and Philip, between Philip and Adam, or between all three of them, she could not say.

  Adam disappeared into the kitchen and soon the sounds of rattling and chopping indicated that some kind of meal was being prepared. Between Lucy and Philip, the tense silence persisted. She perched on a wooden chair, as close to th
e fire as she could get.

  The heat, combined with the lateness of the hour and fatigue from her exertions, made her feel drowsy but the sensation of Philip's eyes on her kept sleep at bay.

  “You're thinner.”

  The cool observation sent her drooping head jerking upwards. She was about to respond but his keen glance forced her back into wary silence. Why did he always have this effect on her? She could never relax in his presence. He made her feel supremely self-conscious and nervous, so that she stumbled in her conversation and her awkwardness turned into resentment.

  Even during the weeks she had spent at Darwell Manor before leaving on her mission to Rokeby Hall, she had felt that she needed to watch and weigh everything she said, so that his incisive mind would grasp the correct meaning of her words without reading any unintentional nuances into them.

  Somehow, he gave the impression that, even as he spoke, he was masterminding the whole conversation, plotting and planning several moves ahead. He must think very little of his fellow mortals, Lucy decided. Maybe that was why he had no friends, because he made people feel so small and incapable in comparison to himself.

  At least, that was how he made her feel. Yet she was still determined not to let him get the better of her. Now that she had his precious deeds, she was free of him.

  This thought gave her confidence. Reaching inside her bodice and almost blushing in the heat of his penetrating gaze, she pulled out the rolled paper and handed it to him.

  “My side of the bargain is completed,” she told him coolly.

  She noted the elegance of his fingers as he extended a hand and plucked the deeds from her fingers. He did not say a word as he undid the red ribbon binding them and cast his eyes over the pages, as if to reassure himself that they were, in fact, the originals and not a clever forgery.

  Then he turned to her, as unsmiling as ever, and announced, “Very well. I, too, will complete my side. You are free to go.”

  The realization took several seconds to dawn on Lucy, but finally the truth sank in.

  I am no longer in bondage to any man or woman–neither horse traders, Philip Darwell himself, nor the hideous Hardcastles, she thought, beaming in joy. I can go home now and see Mother. Oh, how I've missed her!

  Maybe, after her visit home, she would go to London; she had always wanted to taste the excitement of the bustling capital. Perhaps she would carry out her plan to trace her brother Geoffrey, the success of which would gladden both her mother's heart and her own.

  “Where will you go now?”

  Philip's words drowned her runaway thoughts in iced water. Surely even he wasn't cruel enough to evict her from the farmhouse that very night and watch her stumble out into the wild bleakness of the winter landscape in her pitifully inadequate clothes and not a ha'penny in her purse?

  She thought back to their bargain. There had been no mention of any payment, simply her liberty for the price of the deed. Yet, if there was any human kindness or gratitude in Philip's character, surely he would help her on her way, not send her out on foot in freezing weather? She reminded herself that in his eyes, she was nothing but a thief. Why should he help her?

  Just as her spirits were starting to sag, a delicious aroma assailed her nostrils from the direction of the kitchen. She felt saliva gathering in her mouth at the thought of filling her stomach with food. She had regressed into a feral creature whose first instincts were to eat and survive.

  Adam appeared bearing a steaming bowl of broth in which her avid eyes could spot big hunks of rabbit meat mixed with barley, herbs and vegetables.

  “Poachers' broth,” he told her, handing her a slice of coarse bread as an accompaniment to the repast.

  She was halfway through the wholesome, satisfying meal before she looked up and inquired, “Am I the only one dining?”

  Adam glanced at Philip, then down at his feet. Lucy frowned, puzzled. Could they not answer even a question as simple as this? She shrugged. First things first. She returned to her stew, ladling it up in great spoonfuls and following each mouthful with a bite of the gritty bread.

  When there was nothing left but some small bones and an inedible crust, she heaved a deep sigh and felt her spirits returning to her.

  It was at this point that Philip uncoiled his long, lean body from the armchair and stood up with his back to the fire.

  “I think an explanation is due to you,” he stated, his face expressionless, his eyes half covered by his heavy, long-lashed lids.

  Lucy gazed up at him expectantly. There was a lot she wanted to know.

  “Adam here …” He waved a hand towards him and the head groom smiled disarmingly, reminding Lucy of the very first time she had been introduced to him in the kitchens of Rokeby Hall.

  He still emanated the frankness and warmth which she found so appealing and she found herself recalling their kiss in the lane. But this was not time for reminiscences, however pleasant or puzzling, and she hastily recalled herself to the present.

  “Adam used to live and work in Darwell Manor. He's Martha and Matthew's son. We grew up together, he and I, until the Earl, my father, deemed it unfit for the youth of the aristocracy to mix with that of the serving classes, and separated us. Adam was sent over to Rokeby Hall, where he quickly rose to prominence in the stables.”

  “But could he not have gained a better position in the house? As a steward, or cellar master, or even as personal servant to Mr Hardcastle?” interrupted Lucy.

  Adam answered her question for her. “What? And be constantly in the company of that dog fox and his vixen daughter? Far better to be in the stables and out of reach of that bitch's vicious tongue – and you know just how devilish nasty Rachel can be!”

  Lucy wasn't sure if that last remark was directed at herself or Philip. Both of them had had considerable experience of Rachel in all her moods, perhaps Philip even more than her.

  “You weren't always in the stables, though, were you, my friend?”

  Although Philip's chuckling remark was an aside, spoken in an undertone, Lucy nevertheless looked wonderingly at Adam who, blushing, admitted that he had conducted a dalliance with Rachel's maid-before-last, and it had been through her that he had gained the information about where Hardcastle kept the deeds.

  “Then she must have been acquainted with Hardcastle's room!”

  As soon as she had blurted out the remark, Lucy regretted it, seeing the mask of displeasure that settled over Adam's usually amiable features.

  “Not more so than you yourself,” observed Philip cuttingly.

  Lucy bit her lower lip. Surely he didn't think she had allowed Hardcastle to have his way with her? Then she realized that there was a very good chance that he thought exactly that!

  “Adam has long been acquainted with my plans. I asked him to keep watch over you. Maud told him about the sleeping draught, he got message to me that retrieval of the deeds was imminent and I stationed myself here in readiness. It was he who decided you should be the one to take the tankard of punch to Hardcastle's room.”

  Adam took up the story. “And I crept up the secret passage and watched you through the panelling to make sure you carried out your task.”

  He was spying on her! Perhaps he had seen her naked flesh when Hardcastle had tried to unfasten her dress! Anger gathered inside her like a storm cloud, but just before she said something she might have regretted, she remembered the choices he had given her – retrieve the deeds or be hanged as a thief.

  She took a deep breath, then asked, “Why couldn't Adam have stolen the deeds back? It would have been a lot simpler.”

  Philip quirked a sardonic eyebrow. “Having you do it was much more fun. Besides, he has made a good life for himself at Rokeby. I didn't want to risk spoiling it for him. Adam's final task was to lead you here, to me. I must say that he carried out my instructions to the letter.”

  Lucy couldn't bear the look on of fawning gratitude on Adam's face, like a dog that had been patted and praised by its master. On the two
occasions when he had kissed her, he had seemed a man of spirit and initiative. Was he really a mere lackey of Philip's? Or was he playing some devious game, in the hope of advancement if there were to be an increase in Philip's fortunes? For, if Philip could afford to employ his childhood playmate, then there would be no need for Adam to spend one second longer at Rokeby Hall.

  Suddenly, the whole atmosphere in the unkempt room seemed to rise up and oppress her. There was too much that she did not understand. She felt as if they had both, in their own ways, used her as a pawn in some master plan of which only a small portion had been revealed to her.

  Raising her head high, she plucked her cloak from the back of the chair where it had been placed to dry and told Philip, with as much dignity as she could muster, “Seeing as you have no further use for me, I shall be going.”

  Then she snatched open the door and launched herself out into the cutting wind and all-masking whiteness.

  Almost immediately, Adam came bounding after her. “Where do you think you're going? If you've got nowhere, then come back to Rokeby Hall with me. I'll see that nobody suspects you of the theft. I'll find a way of looking after you, I promise.”

  “Back to Rokeby Hall?”

  Lucy's voice was edged with bitterness. Was this the “freedom” she had suffered for, the freedom to return to slavery in the service of Rachel or some other like her, or to the sweet trap of the arms of yet another man whose attentions she had never sought?

  She noted the hopeful expression in Adam's eyes, and the truth struck her; he was in love with her. She was not flattered by the realization, just rather sad for him. She remembered his efforts to cheer her up at the servants' party, his tender ministrations to her freezing hands and face in the lane and the passionate kiss that had warmed her more than ten cloaks would have done. And she knew his offer to look after her would extend far further than merely keeping an eye on her.

  Perhaps, had she been a different kind of girl, she could have loved Adam in return. She despised herself for feeling somehow superior to him, a feeling which had not been present in her until she had watched his subservient lap-dog behaviour towards Philip.