The Duke's Suspicion. Susanna Craig
more clearly the bluish cast of her lips. “Come,” he said, moving both chairs closer to the table, closer to the meager warmth offered by the candle. “Take off that soaked pelisse.”
That order sent another flare of uncertainty through her eyes. But after a moment, she laid her book on the table and attempted to comply, though her fingers shook. The dress beneath was nearly as wet in patches and clung provocatively to her curves. He took the sodden pelisse from her hands and quickly turned away. On a rusty hook near the door hung his greatcoat. After making a simple exchange of wet garment for dry, he returned to her side.
Once enveloped by his greatcoat’s length and breadth, she allowed herself to be guided to a chair. “I’m afraid I dare not build a fire,” he explained as he took the place across from her. “The chimney looks on the verge of collapse.” Indeed, some of its uppermost stones had tumbled down through the flue into the firebox. They lay glistening in the candlelight as rain trickled over them and damp air seeped into the room.
The candle gave at least the illusion of heat, though he knew, and she must too, that it would not last until dawn. It was only September. They were in no danger of freezing to death. But it promised to be a miserable night.
“You should try to get some rest,” he urged.
For once, she did not argue. Laying one arm on the tabletop, she used it to pillow her head. With one finger of the other hand, she traced the tooled leather binding of her book. “Thank y-y-you,” she stuttered through another shiver masked as a yawn. “It has been a tiring day.”
“Yes,” he agreed automatically.
Except he wasn’t tired. He’d ridden a good distance since morning, it was true, but today’s exertion was nothing to what he had known in recent years. If it wasn’t fatigue that had prompted him to take shelter when the storm clouds rose, then what was it? Major Lord Tristan Laurens would have spurred his horse to a gallop, outrun those clouds, and made it home before nightfall, no matter how tired.
Raynham, on the other hand, was not so eager to reach Hawesdale Chase.
Crossing his legs at the ankle, he leaned back in his chair and prepared to pass an uncomfortable few hours. Rain continued to fall steadily, though the thunder now rolled farther off. Erica’s restive hand at last fell still, but even in her sleep, she still guarded her book. It made him wonder what was inside. Already the candle’s heat had begun to dry her hair, transforming its tangled waves from rusty brown to polished copper. He had no notion of what had become of her bonnet, or even if she had been wearing one at all. She had no gloves, either, and her nails were short and ragged. I’ve never been noted for my ladylike behavior, she had told him, with only the merest hint of chagrin. He did not envy the sister who had been charged with her keeping.
Yet he could not truthfully say he was sorry for an excuse to stay put a few hours more.
Chapter 2
Half awake, Erica bolted upright. Pain stabbed through her neck and down her back, driving away her drowsiness. Where—? Why—? Her eyes fell on the sleeping form of Mr. Laurens, slumped in his chair, chin resting against his chest.
Oh.
Sunlight poured in through the cracks around the shutter, illuminating the dingy room, with its cracked plaster walls and broken furnishings. It was a wonder the cottage hadn’t collapsed around them while they slept. The light picked out the features of Mr. Laurens’s face, too, considerably less timeworn than their surroundings. Why, he wasn’t much older than she, certainly not thirty. His tawny hair caught the sun, while a day’s growth of darker beard shadowed his square jaw. Not a bad-looking face, but she refused to think of him as handsome. No one who took such obvious delight in giving orders could ever be appealing to her.
Silently, she stretched her stiff muscles—another unladylike habit for which her mother frequently chided her—and let his greatcoat slide off her shoulders as she picked up her journal and rose. If the storm was over and the sun was shining, then she must make her way, either back to the village or on toward Windermere, and hope her sister never asked where she had spent the night.
She managed to lift the door latch without rattling it. This was hardly the first morning she had arisen early and been eager to get out of doors. Leather hinges creaked and the bottom of the door dragged through the groove it had worn into the dirt floor. A quick glance over her shoulder confirmed that Mr. Laurens slept on, however. A little wider, and she could slip through. She’d just snatch her pelisse from the hook, and—
“Miss Burke?”
“A Thiarna Dia!”
Molly had taught her the oath. Not deliberately, of course. Erica had managed to pick it up after years of startling the family’s housemaid in the kitchen. And on the stairs. And, on one particularly memorable occasion, at the back door, as Erica was sneaking in from an early morning stroll and Molly was stepping out to empty the slops.
“You cannot be thinking of leaving, Miss Burke?”
She could hear an edge of annoyance in his voice. The same voice that yesterday had snapped, “What in God’s name are you doing?” Well, he might have made a plan for when and how she’d leave this cottage, but she had never agreed to wait around for his help or protection. She didn’t need either one.
Determinedly, she turned back to tell him so. And discovered him standing just inches away now, one hand on the partially open door, blocking her way. Her pulse quickened. Did he mean to keep her prisoner? What would she do if he slammed the door shut and latched it?
Instead, he swung it wide, ducked under the lintel, and stood with his arms crossed behind his back, filling the opening. “Just as I feared.”
Curiosity got the better of her, though she was forced to peer around his shoulder to satisfy it. The sight that greeted her eyes was breathtaking. In the way a swift blow to the stomach might take one’s breath away.
The cottage had been built on a little rise. If it had not, they might have been standing ankle-deep in water. Ponds had formed in every hollow and dip. The roadway on which she had intended to walk to Windermere was now a river of mud. Wind had stripped the autumn leaves from the trees. They floated over the ground in spills of tarnished gold and blood red, leaving bare, wintry branches to scratch at the sky like ghostly hands. And though the sun shone down mercilessly on this scene of devastation, on the western horizon, dark clouds were gathering. More rain was on its way.
“Still determined to strike out on your own this fine morning?” He did not glance her way as he spoke.
“I—”
Oh, why hadn’t she bothered to learn a few more Irish curses? She could’ve used them now, for this was a fine mess. For once, it seemed unlikely her sister would catch her in it, but she could not take consolation in the thought. What if Cami had discovered her missing, turned back to find her, and been trapped—or worse—by the storm and its aftermath?
“A Thiarna Dia.”
This time, the words took the form of a whispered prayer.
“Well,” said Mr. Laurens, “I can see just one solution.”
“And what would that be?” She could see only water.
He turned from the door. Reflexively, she stepped out of his way, though he did not seem to notice. He moved as though he was used to people clearing a path before him. She fought a childish impulse to stretch out one toe and trip him.
“I have a house not three miles east as the crow flies,” he said. “We can reach it before that storm cloud does, if we make haste.”
Her mind bounded like a hare, chased from one question to the next. How could they travel safely through all that water? But if they stayed put, with no food and no way to build a fire, how long could they survive?
And if his own home stood so near, what had possessed him to stop here?
The last, of course, could not be asked. Even she understood that. They were, after