The Notorious Bridegroom. Kit Donner
her cheeks, remembering how her good arm had rested on his powerful shoulder, her heart still clipping at a frantic pace.
She took deep breaths to regain her sense and sanity. It did not seem possible to regret what had happened between them, nor did she normally waste time wishing to change the past, reflecting only how the past would affect her future.
Her future. What did it hold? For so long, her history was one of continual love and support for her four brothers and her fiancé, Richard. When he died, a lifelong dream of family and home became obsolete, deemed appropriate for the hopes only of younger girls.
Contentment had been hers in caring for her family. Passion had never played a part in her relationship with Richard, but then, she had not known that there was more emotion and feeling to be realized from a simple touch or a searing look. That in life there is something sweeter than chocolate, more brilliant than rainbow colors, more fragrant than the promising nectar of a blossoming honeysuckle. All for the taking, if only one knew where to find it.
And her teacher had been indeed generous and skillful. There was more, and it was right to want it. Would God think her wicked for wanting to experience something she had never known before? And even though she disliked his lordship’s arrogance by insinuating she needed practice, his kisses lit long-dormant timbers of fire in her soul.
Wiggling down into the nest of her bed, she resolved to continue to search for a way to free Rupert and fight for something more which would perhaps bring her greater happiness. But could diverse propositions have hope in a happy reconciliation? She hoped she would not get more than she bargained for.
The next morning, Patience moved slowly down the shiny dark cherry staircase, careful not to move her arm overmuch. She had awakened early this morning with only a dull ache from her wounded limb, her stomach growling. Washing and dressing had proven to be quite a chore, taking over an hour because of her handicap. Oversized mobcap and glasses snug on her nose, she decided to venture out of her small chamber.
Mr. Gibbs, in the kitchen, told her authoritatively, “His lordship has instructed me to show you the account books in his study. He seems to believe you have some knowledge of arithmetic.”
A while later, she sat in the earl’s chair, safe from all prying eyes, and leaned back, melting into the leather. Tea and a half-eaten biscuit lay nearby. She closed her eyes and all her senses were attuned to his presence. She felt the very fiber of him, with his brandy, sandalwood, and the smell of tobacco permeating her musings.
She jerked herself away from those thoughts, opening her eyes to concentrate on the room. It took only minutes to realize that she could not work in this gloomy atmosphere. She left the large chair and headed to the windows to open the gold-brocade curtains stretched floor to ceiling.
Dust particles flitted through the bold stream of light filling the once-cavelike room. Scrutinizing the furnishings and the condition of the study, to her dismay, she found boxes filled with books piled high in the corner and empty bookshelves lining the walls. But for the desk and a few scattered chairs near the fireplace, the room looked unwelcoming. Actually, she realized, the whole house presented an unloved façade.
As she gazed around the sparse room, she concluded that the house had more of a flavor of an inn than a real home. After reflecting long enough about the earl’s manor and his manner of inhabiting it, Patience turned to the books at hand.
The morning stretched into the late afternoon, interrupted only by Lem bringing her a small repast when she had almost finished recording the latest house supplies for the month. She stood up and thought to take the finished tray to the kitchen.
What a sapscull! Why not look in his desk for possible clues to his plans? Her hands trembled with anxiety as she reached for the first knob. A niggling, conscience-grabbing, Methodist-forbidding instant halted her movements. But then she remembered she was on the honorable side of the law and hoped the constable would believe the same thing. Perhaps there was not anything to find, his lordship being far too clever.
Three drawers opened to a slight tug but revealed nothing. The other three remained tightly locked, with no sign of a key. Nothing to condemn the man, except his disturbing kisses and passion-filled bright blue eyes. Frustrating, yes, but perhaps not disappointing.
Who was he, truly? She herself had heard the earl proposing to sell England’s secrets. But suppose, imagine, he might not be the guilty party, at fault only for his purposeful seduction that she seemed to fall for time and again. While she might be slightly relieved, it still left two questions: Who had murdered her cousin? And who was the Englishman guilty of treason?
As she gazed at the huge bookcase behind the massive mahogany desk, she remembered Lem telling her a tale about secret passages that led to the shore. Hmmm.
Fifteen minutes later, she had still not found an opening but knew it had to be there somewhere. The mantel clock measured time lost, ticking noisily in her ears. She rubbed her palms against her skirts and tried again, her luck sure to change. Her fingers finally felt a small latch underneath the fourth shelf. She pulled it, and the bookcase opened smoothly, revealing a threshold beckoning the unknown.
Only one way to discover more of the earl’s secrets. A little harmless trip down the passageway to see where it led. Before taking a step over the entryway, she remembered to take a weapon, hoping it would not be necessary to use it. She reached over and grabbed a letter opener and candle off the earl’s desk. The letter opener fit snugly in her deep pocket. She swiftly lit the wick, hitched her skirts higher, took a deep breath, and stepped into the darkness.
Water drip-dropped and echoed throughout the black corridor. The candle wick in her hand flickered from a faint draft. She placed her right hand on the nearby wall to steady herself down the uneven stones, slick under her feet from condensation. One step, then two. A shiver ran through her from the damp air. In the distance, she could discern running water.
She stopped. Was that a voice she heard? Patience hoped it was not the earl and his friends returning. In an echoing chamber, it was difficult to tell whether sounds were coming from in front of her or behind her. She held her breath for what seemed like hours before proceeding. The voices faded away, and her heart returned almost to its normal beating.
She nearly lost her footing when a small animal ran across her shoe. A shriek escaped her lips. I don’t think I can do this. I don’t like the dark, nor the cold, nor an unknown destination, nor mostly anything I can’t see. With a battle of wills arguing in her head, she stubbornly continued her journey farther down into the cave.
Quickly learning to walk on the difficult path, with the candlelight providing only glimpses of what was in front of her, after several slight missteps, she could hear the Channel water slurping the beach. She drew closer to a larger pool of light as she approached the cave’s opening. When a mischievous breeze extinguished her candle, she hugged the side of the cave as she made her way to the entrance.
So this passageway did lead to the beach. Easy enough for a French spy like the earl to have a ship waiting to take him back to France. It must not be more than half a mile from Paddock Green.
Patience stopped directly outside the cave and looked down the quiet shoreline marred by a maze of huge rocks and boulders. A glance to the sky above assured her darkness would cover her progress, the full moon stayed hidden behind clouds. While the night might shield her presence, it was also effective in hiding the path the earl might have taken. She closed her eyes and listened to the wind and the water lapping against the smooth sands.
Then she heard them. Voices.
Her mobcap and spectacles stuffed in a pocket, a cool breeze blew a loose strand of hair across her face from her improvised bun.
The sand fell away beneath her sturdy shoes as she made her way slowly across the beach. After about three hundred yards, she stopped and listened again. Only the wind seemed to tease her ear. Without the voices, she lost her compass.
Patience stood with arms akimbo, trying to determine a course of action. Her bottom lip took a savage beating as her teeth chewed a decision.
Forbidding