Mistress of Scandal Page 2

  Sebastian met his eyes, trying to read them, but there was nothing to read. Either Hal was a practiced liar or he was telling the truth. Whichever it was, Sebastian had come too far now to go back. “Very well,” he said. Then, just in case there was something devious afoot: “If you’re not being true with me I will come after you.”

  Hal’s gaze shifted nervously, but his voice was firm. “I am true to my principles, sir. You can’t ask more than that of a man.”

  Sebastian nodded. “Fair enough.” He left Hal struggling to lift one of his restive mount’s hind legs and set off again. He was watching the dark silhouette of the horseman atop the crags—if it was a trap, then he wanted to be ready. He was so busy observing the horseman’s every move that it was a moment before he realized the danger did not come from there. It came from below.

  The ground beneath him had begun to shake and quiver in a most alarming way.

  Sebastian drew up with a shout, trying to turn his horse around, but the ground was sucking at the animal’s hooves like quicksand. That was when he remembered some passing comment he had heard at the inn. Something about a mire or a bog, where the unwary wanderer could be swallowed whole and never seen again.

  I must get out of this, he thought frantically, but the horse was in a total panic and reared up and threw him. As he lay, stunned and winded, he heard it struggling to find a footing, and then galloping off triumphantly.

  His horse had escaped but it was too late for Sebastian. He was sinking. He tried to scramble out, shouting to Hal to help him. The other man was already running toward him. “Get me out of here!” Sebastian called.

  But Hal stopped at the very edge of the mire, and the expression in his eyes was unmistakable. “Can’t do that, sir.”

  It is a trap then, he thought bleakly. But he was not beaten yet. “You want your money, don’t you?” he cried angrily. “It’s not much good to you if I sink to the bottom.”

  “Some things are more important than money,” Hal replied forebodingly, and crouched down on his haunches, watching closely as Sebastian sank up to his waist. “You don’t want t’struggle too hard, Mr. Thorne,” he said helpfully. “Makes you go under quicker. Stay nice and still and you’ll live longer.”

  “You mean I won’t sink if I don’t struggle?”

  “No, you’ll still sink.”

  Sebastian gave a breathless, bitter laugh.

  “I’m sorry about this, sir,” Hal added surprisingly.

  Sebastian tried to read the irony in his face but there was none. Hal was telling the truth; he was genuinely repentant. “But you’re not going to save me, are you?” he snarled.

  “I can’t do that. As I told you, I have to be true to my principles, see. My family comes first. You’re a threat to them, sir.” He nodded toward the tor, which was now empty. “We had no choice but to stop you. I reckon you’d do the same.”

  “Spare me your homespun philosophies and get me out. Whatever you’re being paid, I’ll double it.”

  “It isn’t owt to do with money,” Hal said sincerely. “If it was I’d pull you out, for I’ve got nowt against you, sir. Believe me, this isn’t personal. I have to do as I’m told or my life is in danger. These people…they’re serious folk. Dangerous folk.” Abruptly he straightened up and took a step backward. “Good-bye, Mr. Thorne,” he called out. “I won’t stay to watch you die. I hope for your sake t’end is quick.”

  Shaking with fury, Sebastian watched as Hal walked back to his horse and rode away, leaving him to die.

  It didn’t seem real, but the cold mud and sour smell of rotting vegetation were real enough. No matter how still he tried to be, he was sinking, slowly but surely. There was something truly horrible in the thought of dying in such an inevitable manner. To have so much time to think about his own end. This was far, far worse than the quick death he’d dreamed of—a dark alleyway, a knife in the back.

  He turned his head, seeking help that wasn’t there, and caught sight of something nearby, poking up out of the mire. It was a dead branch, rising up like a spear…or an outstretched hand. He reached out, his fingers trembling, and touched the wood, wrapped his hand around it. The branch was still strong enough for him to grasp it and use it to drag himself closer. He threw one arm over it, half expecting to hear it snap, but it didn’t. He hung on, wriggling upward every time he started to sink again, trying to keep his head and chest above the mire.

  Sebastian drew a shaken breath. He was certain there was no Gypsy camp over the hill—Hal would not leave him within reach of help—but he shouted anyway, as loud as he could for as long as he could. He shouted until he was hoarse. But no one came.

  It would be night soon, and he was alone. And although Sebastian Thorne was a man who was used to his own company, this was different. He didn’t want to die here all by himself. There were questions in his head clamoring for answers, questions he rarely asked himself. Did he really deserve such an ignominious end? Sebastian wasn’t the sort to give in easily, and he wasn’t going to let Hal and his masters rid themselves of him without a fight. He told himself that he would escape, and after he had dealt with them, he’d complete his assignment for Aphrodite, and then…perhaps he’d go home.

  Home. The ramshackle manor house in the New Forest, his brother’s pained expression when he left. A longing that he hadn’t felt for years rose up within him. He stifled it. He couldn’t go home; he could never go home.

  As the darkness began to fall, and freezing night closed over him like a fist, he found his mind drifting. Suffering from exhaustion and cold, Sebastian clung to the branch, and sometimes he slipped into a doze through sheer exhaustion. But the sinking motion that followed always brought him to his senses again, sending him struggling up through the mud, terrified his face would go under.

  Then he began to feel as if he was being watched. He’d peer into the night and think he could see shadows, darker than the rest, one moment there, the next gone. He knew it was his mind playing tricks on him, but as the long hours dragged by, it gave him something to think about other than his own death.

  It was a woman, he decided, the woman of his dreams. She had fine, straight red hair, and blue eyes, and a well-bred nose, and lips as ripe and red as cherries. Those lips looked sweet, too, and when she smiled at him…He smiled back, although it was more like a grimace, his teeth white in his muddy face. He’d had plenty of women, from serving girls to society ladies, but it all meant nothing, because none of them had touched his heart.

  As the long night continued, Sebastian wondered if his dream woman was out there somewhere, and if she was, whether he would ever find her.

  The ground was spongy underfoot. It could be treacherous, but Francesca knew the ways of these wild and desolate moors. She had lived here all her life; the country was a part of her. Only here could she truly be herself.

  Climbing onto higher ground, her steps firm and sure, Francesca paused to look about her. Her cloak flapped in the cold wind, and the hood fell back from her curling dark hair. A gust of rain-filled wind stung her cheeks, and she narrowed her dark eyes against it.

  Wolf, her lurcher, began to bark. Francesca murmured reassurance to him, her gaze upon the horizon. There were clouds coming in, but she had time enough before the weather closed down. She had already walked a long way this morning, and really she should be turning back. There was packing to be done. Lady Greentree, or Mrs. Jardine as she now was, would be worrying and wondering where she was. Her adoptive mother was soon to embark upon a journey to London…

  And Francesca was going with her.

  That was why she was out here in the cold and the rain, walking upon her beloved moors. Soon there would be nothing for her to see from her window but houses and rattling vehicles and people, lots of people, all crowded into the confines of the smoky, dirty, and ever expanding city of London.

  Already she felt the ache in her heart at leaving, the loss of her freedom. She would put on her smart traveling outfit, the one her mot
her had purchased in York, and the façade that went with it. Respectable, restrained, proper Miss Francesca Greentree—everything that deep in her heart she knew she wasn’t.

  Wolf barked again. He ran higher, to the very top of a limestone outcrop, and stood with legs stiff and wiry coat bristling, staring intently down the other side. Francesca knew that over there lay the green and deceptively beautiful Emerald Mire, and that the mire was the last resting place of many a wandering sheep, or an unwary stranger.

  Quickly she climbed up to join the lurcher, ignoring the splatters of rain falling about her. A strong gust of wind caught at her clothing, and she tugged her cloak closer around her. Her skin tingled with the cold, her blood was coursing through her veins, and her body felt alive, and at one with the elements.

  At that moment she reached the summit. Her hand resting on Wolf ’s head, she drank in the view, storing it away in her heart for the long months ahead.

  Wolf took off, loping down the other side, straight for the mire. Francesca called him to come back, but he ignored her. Worried, even though she knew he was familiar with the dangers, she caught up her skirts and ran after him, her old boots slipping and sliding on the rough ground.

  “Wolf!”

  He turned and gave a series of barks, as if to say, Can’t you see him! before he set off again.

  Francesca stared out over the green shimmering surface, and she did see him. The man.

  He was lying awkwardly, trapped, with his arms wrapped around a branch that had somehow found its way into the mire. His head was turned away from her.

  Was he alive?

  A shiver of horror went through her and she slowed her steps. He was so still. He must be dead. She told herself that she should go and fetch help to remove the body, but her feet wouldn’t move.

  Aware that Wolf was still barking, she hushed him. And then she saw one of his hands move, just a twitch, and the man lifted his head and turned his face toward her. It was pale, mud-smeared, with eyes so dark and burning that for a moment Francesca was frozen to the spot, her gaze locked with his.

  And, the strangest thing, he smiled. “It’s you,” he said, his voice deep and hoarse.

  As if he’d been expecting her.

  Chapter 2

  Francesca felt her heart give a painful jolt. He was alive and there was no time to be lost! She picked her way onto the outer edges of the treacherous mire, until her boots began to sink. Wolf ran ahead of her, knowing instinctively where it was safe; he was showing her the way.

  Cautiously Francesca followed until she reached the spot where the big dog stopped. There was a patch of ground about a yard across that was solid and safe, but all around the mire shimmered treacherously. “Good Wolf,” she murmured gratefully, ruffling his coarse coat. “You’re far too fussy to get your feet wet, aren’t you, boy?” For a moment her fingers clung to his warm, wiry body, seeking comfort.

  How was she going to save the man? He was closer now, but still out of reach by several feet, and there was nothing lying about that she could use. She needed a rope or a pole, something for him to cling to so that she could drag him to safety.

  He was watching her, probably wondering if she was going to join him in the mire. “My dog knows the safe path,” she explained.

  “I hope you’re right.” He wiped his face with the sleeve of his jacket, smearing the mud. He had a gentleman’s voice, he’d been to a good school, but other than that and the fact that his hair was as dark as his eyes, Francesca couldn’t tell what he looked like.

  “How long have you been here?”

  “All night.”

  He moved, grimacing with pain. Was he injured? Francesca could see that he was holding on to the half-submerged branch with the crook of his elbow. It didn’t look very secure. Something needed to be done, and soon.

  Wolf made a whimpering sound in his throat and Francesca patted him again, soothing him and herself, while her gaze remained on the man. His head had dropped down, but now he lifted it again and his gaze fastened hungrily on to hers, as if he was afraid that if he blinked or looked away she might disappear.

  “Are you injured?” she called out to him, feeling shaken. “Can you move at all?”

  “You’re not a dream, are you?” he said.

  “No, I promise you I’m no dream.”

  “And is there a Gypsy camp over the hill?”

  “No. There’s nothing between us and the manor house in that direction.” She pointed. “Or the village in that direction.” She swung her arm around.

  “Fool, bloody fool. I should have realized. The birds, that was it, when there were no birds, I should have—”

  Because the conversation he was having appeared to be with himself and had nothing to do with her, Francesca ignored him. She bent down, and by testing the ground in front of her with her hands, she was able to creep slowly forward. Wolf was whining anxiously at her back, clearly of the opinion that she was pushing her luck, but she ignored him, intent on getting as close as possible to the stricken stranger. She’d remembered seeing a boating accident once, when she and her family were holidaying in the Lake District. A child had fallen from a boat, and one of the men stripped off his jacket and used it as a sort of rope, so that the child had something to grasp.

  Francesca didn’t have a jacket, but she did have her woolen cloak. It was old but it was made of stout Yorkshire wool, and Francesca thought that it would do very well.

  The stranger was still muttering to himself, so Francesca interrupted him. “Sir?” He swung his head around, eyes narrowing, as if he was surprised to find her there. “Can you move at all? If I were to twist my cloak into a rope and throw it toward you, could you use it to try to pull yourself free?”

  He was watching her mouth intently, as if he was trying to read her lips. Perhaps he was delirious.

  “Sir?” she repeated desperately. “Did you understand what I said?”

  “Cherries,” he said, as if he’d come to some important decision. “Ripe cherries. But the hair is wrong, and the nose…”

  Crouching on the edge of the mire, her skirts muddy, her face frozen, and her hair damp from the soft falling rain, Francesca wavered in her determination to rescue him by herself. “I’m going back for help.” She spoke loudly and clearly. “I don’t want to leave you here, but I think I must. It will not be for long.”

  He blinked, and clarity returned to his face and focus to his eyes. “No,” he said with hoarse desperation. “Don’t go. I promise you I am unhurt, just very tired from a night spent trying to keep myself from being swallowed up by this infernal muddy soup.”

  Francesca hesitated.

  He could see the doubt. “Please,” he repeated. “If you go, I won’t be alive when you get back. Don’t desert me.” He was tired and close to the end of his strength. She read it in his eyes as they stared at each other, and knew that this man’s life was in her hands. She felt a trembling deep inside her as she acknowledged the responsibility, but it was one she was willing to accept.

  “I will do my best,” she agreed. “I won’t desert you.”

  “Thank you.” He smiled, and despite his state, there was something about his smile…

  Francesca busied herself by removing her cloak and twisting it until it resembled a bulky rope. One end she wound as tightly as she could around her hand, and then she tossed the other end toward him.

  It fell short.

  He tried to reach it anyway, stretching out his free arm, scrabbling with his fingers. The branch cracked sharply, and the mire made a horrid sucking sound, as if it wasn’t prepared to give him up. Wolf began barking hysterically, dancing in tight circles. Quickly Francesca pulled her cloak back, trying not to panic at the sight of him grappling with the branch to keep himself from being swallowed.

  “This…bloody…thing…will…not…hold…much…longer,” he gritted.

  “You swear a great deal,” she said, flustered, struggling with her cloak.

  He laughed wild
ly.

  Francesca prepared to toss him the makeshift rope once more.

  He tried to alter his position so that he had a better chance of catching hold of it when she threw it, and then swore again, abruptly. “Damn and blast it! I can’t feel my legs. It’s the cold, curse it.”

  Francesca prayed it was not something worse. If he could not help her with the task ahead, then they were both lost.

  He struggled, and ominously the branch cracked again. “I’m sinking,” he said grimly.

  “Hold on!”

  “If I stop talking you’ll know I’ve gone under.”

  “At least you’ll stop swearing.”

  “It’s…not…unreasonable…to…swear…in…the…circumstances.”

  Ignoring him, on her hands and knees, Francesca began to creep closer still, feeling her way, and although she sank a little, she didn’t stop moving until the ground began to tremble violently. “That’s far enough.” Behind her, Wolf showed his concern by whimpering.

  Francesca stretched out on her front, trying to spread her weight evenly over the quivering ground. She secured one end of her cloak beneath her. “Are you ready?”

  His hand was outstretched, fingers spread wide. “Do it.”

  She flung it.

  He caught it. Just as the branch finally snapped in two. He clung to her cloak with both hands. With a grunt of effort, he twisted the woolen cloth around his arm, so that it was tightly drawn between them.

  He grinned at her without humor. “My life is in your hands.”

  Francesca tried to think of some clever retort, but she was beyond it. Besides, she wasn’t sure she could save him. She was tall and strong for a woman, but he was a big man. Then Wolf tugged at her skirts with his teeth, doing his best to pull her back to safety, and she knew this was the moment. It was now or never.

  “Now!” Francesca shouted, and began to haul on the makeshift rope, moving back as she pulled him in like a huge fish.

  Dear God, he was heavy! Her muscles burned; her arms felt as if they were being torn from their sockets. The mire made that awful sucking sound again, as if it were loath to give up its prey.