He told himself they weren’t wrong, that leaving was the best thing he could do.
For Jacqueline, the household, and all those on the Nimway Hall estate.
Slinking away would have been so much easier.
Turning to Elinor and Hugh, Richard clung to the formal observances and the standard phrases of farewell.
Both replied, but he sensed their hearts were not in their words.
Then he turned to Jacqueline.
What to say?
Giving in to compulsion, he bowed low—a full court bow, one he accorded very few. Straightening, he held out his hand.
Faintly surprised, she surrendered her fingers to his clasp.
He captured her gaze, raised her fingers to his lips, and pressed a kiss—a faint echo of the kiss he had held back from giving her in the gallery in the shadows of the night—to the backs of her fingers.
He released her and swept her a last bow.
Then he turned and, pulling on his riding gloves, descended the steps.
Hopkins held Malcolm steady, and Richard swung up to the saddle. He settled and gathered the reins, then he looked one last time at the household of Nimway Hall—at Jacqueline in their center, the heart of the house—then he raised his hand in a salute, dug in his heels, and sent Malcolm into a quick trot.
He rode away from Nimway Hall and refused to let himself look back.
Jacqueline watched him go. She couldn’t think. She could barely breathe through the emotion gripping her.
The trees closed around his dwindling figure, the shadows swallowed him, and then he was gone.
She felt hollow inside, as if in leaving he’d taken some vital part of her with him. She didn’t want to think what that part was; he’d gone, and that was that. She had a household to run; she couldn’t afford to turn maudlin.
Around her, the others shifted, then turned and, softly murmuring, quit the porch, Elinor and Hugh making for the parlor while the staff returned to their duties.
She needed to return to her duties, too, yet she allowed herself a moment. To stare after him and grieve for what might have been.
The backs of her fingers still tingled with warmth as if they’d been marked in some significant way.
At some point over the past days, she’d started to wonder, and then to believe, that Richard Montague was the one—that as the stories foretold, Fate had snared him in Balesboro Wood and sent him to her. Sent him to be her one, her husband, the man who would stand beside her, her champion in her role as guardian of the Hall.
It hadn’t been so—that hadn’t come to be.
She’d read the signs wrongly. Perhaps because, in her heart, she knew that she needed him—the man who would willingly be hers—the man who would be happy to stand beside her and defend the Hall, its lands, and its people.
In her bones, she’d felt that Richard Montague could be that man, but he hadn’t been willing, and only a man willing to be her true partner could fill the role. Could help her shoulder the burden.
A burden she’d been born to which she nevertheless consciously embraced with her whole heart and soul.
This was her place, and Richard had wanted no part of it.
At least he’d been honest. She needed to respect that, accept that, and be content.
And wait.
With a sigh, she refocused on the now-empty drive, then turned and went inside.
The shadows of the great hall engulfed her. She didn’t look back, so she didn’t see the bushes along the drive shake.
Grinning, Morgan rose from his crouch, turned, and crept away from the Nimway Hall drive, making his way deeper into the wood.
The farther he went, the harder he grinned. His sturdy cob would carry him to Lydford in no time at all, and then…he felt certain his demanding master would be well pleased.
Richard cantered steadily through Balesboro Wood. He was following the same track he, Jacqueline, and Elinor had used the previous day. He kept his wits about him, determined that, this time, he wouldn’t get lost.
Finding himself forced to return to Nimway Hall—lost again—would be beyond embarrassing.
The trees closed in on both sides, draping pleasantly cool shadows over the track. Birdcalls drifted down from the canopies, but little else stirred; the area was, indeed, isolated, and few people, it seemed, used this track.
Head up, eyes trained forward, he fought to keep his mind on his destination—tried to recall the streets of Wells and the route to the bishop’s palace, thought of his uncle, of the particular cognac he might have in his library decanter…anything rather than what he was riding away from.
To no avail. Regardless of where he tried to send his thoughts, they circled back to Nimway Hall, to the household there, to Jacqueline.
To the settled feeling that had engulfed him there, the subtle sense of belonging he now recognized—now that he was leaving it behind.
A small crack had opened within him as he’d turned north out of the drive, and with every yard he traveled, that crack widened, revealing a chasm of nothingness, of deadening despair. On top of that, his instincts were pricking him, increasingly insistently.
Then the trees started to thin, and the track ahead lay awash with sunshine as it led on through open fields, and that chasm yawned and ached with loneliness and a yearning denied, and the clamor of his instincts rose to a shriek.
What am I doing?
Malcolm’s stride broke, then the big dappled gray unaccountably jibbed. Richard swore and looked down, wrestling for control as the powerful horse fought the bit, wrenching to the side.
Richard glimpsed the branch just before it hit.
Thwack!
His eyes flew wide as he was swept from his saddle. He landed on his back, and his breath whooshed from him.
Jacqueline met with Mrs. Patrick for their usual morning meeting, but with the wrench of Richard’s leaving dragging at her, it was difficult to concentrate on mundane household matters. Once the housekeeper, who had done her best to mask her sympathy and underlying confusion over Richard’s departure, bustled back to her domain, rather than joining Hugh and Elinor in the parlor—and weathering their unvoiced sympathy, too—Jacqueline snatched up a shawl, swung it around her shoulders, and headed for the side door.
She slipped out of the house and strode determinedly for the lake. If anyone asked, she was surveying the prospects for connecting the lake and the stream. In reality, she needed time alone with no one else about—no one who looked to her for guidance—so she could grapple with her unruly emotions, think things through, and search for guidance herself.
On reaching the path of beaten earth that circled the rim of the lake, she drew her shawl more tightly about her shoulders, folded her arms across her chest, fixed her gaze on the path before her feet, and started walking.
Only then did she lift the lid on the cauldron of her seething emotions. A sense of loss struck her, potent and poignant. It was followed by a deadening feeling of emptiness, of dullness and despair. A vista of never-ending loneliness swam into focus, one lacking all warmth, all joy, all life.
Lacking love.
She tried to turn her mind from the prospect and look further into the future instead. But the future, nebulous though it was, appeared bleak and cold. Empty as well.
As if something that should have been there had been taken away.
She supposed it had.
She was a quarter of the way around the lake when it struck her. Her lips eased, and she almost smiled.
Affirmation, in a way; perhaps she could take some solace from that. Clearly, she hadn’t been wrong in thinking she had fallen in love with, was still in love with, and would probably always love Richard Montague.
Only love could end like this—could leave such a soul-deep emptiness behind.
Over the past days, her heart had made its choice. It had chosen Richard Montague.
She paced on, considering the implications of that; she had a strong suspicion that
for her, that choice was irreversible and immutable—set in stone.
“So,” she murmured, “where does that leave me?”
Where did it leave Nimway Hall?
She’d reached the far end of the lake, the northernmost point. There, the trees crowded close to the path, the way overhung by reaching branches, the air beneath dim and cool.
She was halfway through the shadowed stretch when a sound penetrated her absorption. She raised her head—and sensed movement behind her. She whirled.
Black cloth fell over her face.
She gasped and clutched at the fabric—a black cloth bag?—but it was yanked firmly down over her head.
Rough hands seized her.
She opened her mouth to scream, and a band slapped across her face, pressing between her lips—she shut them, but the band cinched tight, anchoring the black material firmly over her lips, gagging her, almost smothering her.
She fought to break free, but there were at least two men, possibly three, and it was far too late.
They’d used her shawl to tie her arms to her sides. She felt a rough rope tighten about her ankles, then she was lifted, hoisted like a sack over a man’s burly shoulder.
The man started walking.
Her heart thundering in her ears, Jacqueline was certain he wasn’t carrying her to the Hall but into the trees and away.
Richard must have lost consciousness—when he realized he was lying on his back to one side of the track with his eyes closed, he had no idea how much time had elapsed.
His wits had been rattled by the fall. His thoughts were still careening, dizzyingly swirling through his head.
With effort, he raised his lids. The sun striking through the canopy blinded him, and he quickly shut his eyes again.
And as sometimes happened in that curious space between sleeping and waking, between conscious and unconscious minds, the answer to the last question he’d asked floated up from the morass of his churning thoughts.
I’m fleeing as I always do whenever a lady makes advances toward me.
Whenever a lady indicates she has feelings for me, given those feelings are invariably occasioned by my wealth and station and are never truly about me, then it’s time for me to go. To run. Because nothing good comes of staying—I know that.
So I’m running from Jacqueline because she might want me.
Pain lanced through his head. His brain seemed to seize; he winced. Moving slowly, he sat up, raised his hands to his head, and massaged his temples.
There was something wrong about those thoughts. Even in his stunned state, he knew it.
Perhaps because of his stunned state…
He drew in a slow breath and tried to bring order to his disordered mind.
I love Jacqueline. Yes, yes, I’ve been trying not to think that, but I’ve known it for days—why else do I feel so compelled to protect her?
And she’d started to look at me as if she might feel a reciprocal emotion, but as always, there’s the question of how much my wealth and station contribute to that…
His eyes flew wide. “My God.”
He might have been staring at the deity’s face for the wonder that filled him. Several seconds passed, then, as if even now he could barely credit it, he whispered, “She doesn’t know.”
Abruptly, he straightened, all effects of his accident disregarded. “I didn’t tell anyone.” He looked around and saw Malcolm the Great cropping grass two yards away. “They think I’m Richard Montague, unremarkable gentleman of London.”
Hope of a kind he’d never felt before surged through him—and still, the wonder lingered.
He scrambled to his feet, walked to Malcolm, and caught the trailing reins. Then he paused, for one instant uncertain of the wisdom of placing his trust in the surging tide of happiness, of sheer joy, that was welling from the very depths of his soul.
Then he filled his lungs and, giving up all attempts to keep that joy from his face, stated, “She loves me. Me. Just me.”
He gripped the stirrup, slid his boot home, and swung up to the saddle.
Malcolm the Great had already been facing back toward the Hall. The horse was no fool.
Richard laughed, tapped his heels to the big horse’s flanks, and grinned as Malcolm stretched his legs and, unresisting, headed back the way they’d come.
“What a fool I’ve been.” He should never have left. It hadn’t been instinct prodding him to flee but too-well-remembered fear.
How he would explain his return he didn’t know. “I’ll think of something once I’m there.”
Nimway Hall was where he was supposed to be. Remembering the household’s parting looks, he suspected everyone there already accepted that.
Exactly what his role would be might not yet be clear, but if Jacqueline truly wanted him and would forgive him for being an idiot and leaving, he felt sure he and she would work it all out.
Somewhat to his surprise, his instincts were still clamoring, urging him to get back to the Hall.
To get back to Jacqueline’s side.
He frowned. She hadn’t mentioned leaving the Hall that day, yet…
With a mental shrug, he loosened the reins and urged Malcolm the Great into a gallop.
The way forward was clear, and on multiple counts, the sooner he got back to Nimway Hall, the better.
Malcolm the Great thundered up the Nimway Hall drive. The horse had his head down and was all but racing, huge hooves flinging gravel as he charged along.
Richard was nonplussed. He hadn’t urged the horse into such a show; the beast seemed infected by a need to get back to the Hall with all possible speed. Richard wasn’t arguing—his instincts were urging much the same thing—but he was thankful when Malcolm eased the pace as they rounded the last bend in the drive.
The Hall came into view.
Chaos reigned in the forecourt.
Richard’s heart leapt into his throat. His instincts spiked; an unfamiliar fear surged, then gripped and pierced like an eagle’s claw.
The front door stood wide. Hugh was on the porch, in his chair, attempting to direct the men and women rushing inside and out. As Malcolm slowed further, Richard saw boys hurrying from the stable, while another larger party was returning at a jog around the other side of the house, most likely from the lake.
On reaching the forecourt, Richard hauled Malcolm to a halt, flung himself from the saddle, and vaulted up the steps.
Everyone saw him and slowed.
Hugh scowled ferociously, but the anxiety lacing his words gave his disapproval the lie. “Thank God you’re back!”
Richard scanned the figures rushing out of the house; a chill touched his soul. “Where’s Jacqueline?”
“That’s the question, ain’t it?” Hugh waved at the staff gathering about. “We’ve been searching for her everywhere.”
“What happened?” Richard didn’t try to mute the command in his voice.
Pale, Hugh dragged in a breath. “Seems that after her regular meeting with Mrs. Patrick, Jacqueline went off to walk about the lake. Elinor was in the parlor and saw her go. That was near an hour ago. After a while, Elinor got anxious, so she sent one of the boys after Jacqueline, but the lad couldn’t find her.” Hugh’s expression fell into grim lines. “That’s when we started searching.”
Richard looked at Cruickshank; the butler had come to stand behind Hugh’s chair.
Understanding Richard’s unvoiced question, Cruickshank reported, “We’ve searched everywhere in the house, sir, and called all the while. Miss Jacqueline isn’t inside.”
Richard nodded and directed a commanding look at Young Willie.
The lad hurried to say, “We’ve searched everywhere around the stable, sir. The mistress’s mare is still in her stall, and no other horse is missing. No sign she took a horse nor was anywhere near there.”
Richard turned to look at Crawley as he came lumbering up with Hopkins and Ned Ostley, with Crawley’s lads at their backs.
“We found her
footprints on the lake path.” Crawley braced his hands on his knees and hauled in a breath. “They were clearest in that spot at the far end, where the path’s shaded and the ground stays damp.” Grim-faced, Crawley met Richard’s eyes. “Lots of her footprints—and lots of others, besides. Men. Big men in boots.”
A collective gasp of horror went up from Elinor, Mrs. Patrick, and the maids who had streamed out of the house to join those on the porch.
Richard felt cold, iron-willed calm settle about him. “How many?”
“Three.” It was Hopkins, looking wild enough to chew nails, who answered. “Three big blackguards. They carried her off through the trees a-ways to where they had horses waiting on one of the littler paths.”
“Two horses hitched to a small closed coach.” Ned Ostley spoke with certainty. The farrier met Richard’s gaze and went on, “And I can tell you the horses were shod by Jem Smith in Lydford. There’s a tiny mark he puts on all his shoes, and we could see it clearly where the horses had walked.”
“Lydford.” Virtually everyone else had stiffened when Ostley mentioned the place. Richard scanned the now-anxious-yet-furious faces. “Who lives there?”
“That damned blighter, Wallace!” Hugh looked close to apoplectic. “The family house—the one he inherited from his father, who was a damned sight better man—is there. A red-brick house at this end of the village, on a lane just off the village street.” Hugh huffed, his color fading. “The family used to be honorable—nice people—but if half the tales told are true, this latest sprig is anything but. And if he’s taken Jacqueline, he’s a black-hearted scoundrel through and through!”
“He’s got Jacqueline?” Elinor sounded faint. She pressed a hand to her chest.
Richard tried to sound reassuring, but his voice was a growl as he replied, “Not for long.”
Hugh reached up and patted Elinor’s hand where it gripped the back of his chair. “Don’t fret—Richard will get her back.”
Richard nodded decisively. “I will.” It was a vow. Regardless of whether Jacqueline loved him or not, he loved her, and he would do whatever it took—even fight to the death—to return her unharmed to the Hall. He looked around at the men of Nimway Hall. “Who’s with me?”