Romancing the Rogue (136 page)

~~~~

A soft knocking
on her door dragged Annabella from blessed sleep. As she rubbed her eyes, the knocking continued. Why was the room so dim? The fire had burned low, allowing some chill to steal in.

The knock sounded again. Then the door opened a crack. “M’lady?” inquired a soft voice.

“Marie?” Annabella sat, drawing the covers up to her neck. She needn’t have bothered, as she still wore her dressing gown. The bedclothes had wrapped themselves around her feet, neatly tying her in place.

The door was pushed inward. “Good morning, m’lady,” murmured the maid as she crept into the room. “Her grace requests that you dress in fresh, sturdy clothing and meet her at the shooting range.”

Frowning, Annabella rubbed her gritty eyes. “I’m sorry, her grace requests what?” She leaned forward and began working at the covers that held her legs prisoner.

“She wants you to meet her on the archery range.” Marie drew the heavy draperies back.

Beyond the window, tones of mauve and melon pushed against the turquoise and black of the star-dotted night sky.

“Saints!” snapped Annabella, finally freeing her feet. “What time is it?”

Marie curled her lower lip into her mouth and stopped walking toward the wardrobe. “‘Tis almost six o’clock, m’lady. Her grace likes to practice early when the weather is clear.”

“Of course she does,” mumbled Annabella, rolling to sit on the edge of the bed. The old harpy probably never closed her eyes in case the ruddy French marched on Blackmoor. “What has that to do with me?”

Marie stared, wide-eyed. “Her grace says you shall be practicing with her while you and Lord Seabrook are staying here.”

“At six in the morning?” Annabella blew an errant strand of hair from her face and stood. “Not likely. I’ve never heard of such barbaric—”

A splash of blue on the bedstand captured Annabella’s attention. Stunned, she stared at her fan, apparently no longer misplaced. Where had it come from? It hadn’t been there the night before when she’d blown out the candle.

“Seabrook,” she whispered, her blood already heating at the thought of him. He must have crept in while she slept. Had he stared at her, too, that wicked miscreant? Her hands became fists, and she sent a glare toward his bedchamber. Her breath left her lungs in a rush as she recognized the wooden door back in its place. Slowly, she sank back onto her bed. “Seabrook,” she whispered again.

“How about this simple blue gown, my lady?” asked Marie, holding up a morning dress.

Annabella’s gaze slid back to the closed door. Quite suddenly, her fingers itched to shoot some arrows. “Yes, the blue.”

Jon eyed the
platter of pastries. Should he grab another? If he hurried, he might have time to enjoy it before he was joined by Gran or Annabella. He’d managed to avoid them both at the morning meal for the better part of a week by alternating between arriving early and arriving late, and one time passing on breakfast altogether.

He had the beginning of a headache and found himself in no mood for the verbal sparring that continued between the pair of them from sunrise to sunset.

“Now, Dorothea, if you’re going to behave that way, I won’t have Lord Seabrook pick up the fresh fish when he goes into Coventry.”

Too late! Jon frowned at the berry tart as though it had somehow summoned his grandmother.

Coventry! Was it Thursday already? How in blazes could he have forgotten he’d promised Gran he’d stop at the clinic? And what was that business about picking up fresh fish? Blackmoor had no shortage of servants who could run such errands. The Earl of Seabrook wasn’t going to lower himself to retrieving
fish
for his grandmother’s felines.

Jon sighed. At least an excursion into Coventry would provide a welcome excuse to get away from Blackmoor — and the uncomfortable proximity to Annabella — at least for a time. Staying awake until long into the night to ensure she would be asleep by the time he retired had taken its toll, as had awakening earlier than the ruddy sun just to avoid the sounds of her moaning her way out of bed and the rustle of her clothing as she dressed for her archery lessons. Even replacing the door between them hadn’t sufficiently dulled the noises that emanated from her bedchamber.

He’d not hold out much longer before the nearness of his untouchable wife drove him into madness. But the alternative of seeking her out before she was truly ready to make their marriage real was unthinkable. It might well frighten her off.

He pushed away from the dining room table and stood just as the door from the hallway pushed inward.

“Good morning, Jonathan.” Gran’s hearty voice boomed across the dining hall. “Up and at the day before the sun again, I see.”

He forced a smile. “I was about to make the same observation regarding you, Gran.” He peered over her shoulder but other than two of her blasted cats, she was quite alone.

And that wasn’t a faint stab of disappointment that pinched in the vicinity of his heart. It was simply the pastry he’d eaten not agreeing with him. Good thing he hadn’t nabbed the second one after all.

Jon rose to his feet, stepped to the side, and pushed his chair toward the table. “I see your apt pupil is missing her early meal this morning.”

Gran smiled. “Oh, she’ll be along. It takes a lady a bit longer to dress for travel these days.”

Jon’s heart lurched upward to crowd his throat. He gripped the back of his recently vacated chair until his knuckles turned white. “Dress for traveling?”
By the saints, if she thinks she’s leaving—

“Yes, Jonathan, traveling.” Gran shooed the two felines in the direction of the cat table and lowered herself into her seat. “You know very well it would be inappropriate for Annabella to accompany you to town wearing one of those day dresses she wears around here.”

Blood thundered in Jon’s ears, blocking out Gran’s words. In truth, he could not care less what his wife chose to wear. As long as she wore it at Blackmoor Hall. “Accompany me to town?” he finally exploded. “Whatever for? You didn’t tell me I’d be—”

A sharp gasp resonated through the dining hall, and he glanced up. Annabella stared at him from the doorway. Clad in her blue traveling gown, hair neatly arranged on top of her head, she clutched a blue velvet bonnet in one hand. The restless fingers of her other hand plucked at the dried flowers adorning one side.

Every muscle weakened, and Jon lost his grip on the chair back. How long had she been standing there? Long enough to hear his outburst, obviously. Her face had gone pale at first, but presently deep crimson was seeping its way into both cheeks.

“I beg your pardon,” she snapped, sending him a glower that matched his own sour mood. “Am I to understand I’m now considered a prisoner in your home, Lord Seabrook? Am I not allowed to leave? Or is it merely my company you find objectionable?”

She whirled as though to leave the room.

That should have been the end of it. He should have been relieved that she was obviously opting out of the excursion.

Then, quite without his permission, his mouth opened and words poured out. “Wait. Please. I should like you to visit the town with me.” Jon’s stomach tied itself into a knot. Was he mad? She might bolt in Coventry. He had no way of knowing who she might be able to convince to assist her in getting back to Wyndham Green. Or on to London… and Grey.

…considered a prisoner… considered a prisoner… considered a prisoner…

Her charge echoed like a mad parrot’s ramblings through his mind until he wanted to clap his hands over his ears. She’d hit on more truth than fabrication, and he couldn’t deny it — rather, the only way to deny it would be to prove her accusation wrong. That was the reason he invited her.

That’s not the only reason,
sang the insane parrot. He squashed the thought. It was the only reason he was willing to entertain at the moment. He inched in her direction, expecting his movement to send her edging away from him. When she merely cocked her head but didn’t move, Jon felt as though the floor tilted beneath him.

She stood as though frozen, one hand on the door. Her mouth was drawn in a grim line, but her green eyes flashed with all the fire of first water emeralds. The fight hadn’t left her at all. She was merely calculating how to take it to a higher level.

“I beg your pardon, Lady Seabrook. My grandmother’s plans…” He swept a hand in Gran’s direction, and his voice faltered over his next words when he realized the old woman was watching the two of them with ardent intensity, almost as though she drew energy from the charge in the air.

He narrowed his eyes at Gran. “My grandmother’s
plans
took me by surprise.” He concentrated on relaxing his stance as he turned back to Annabella. “I can think of nothing I would like better than for you to join me.”

He held his breath as he offered his arm. Annabella raked him with haughty scrutiny. Jon shivered. He’d left her too long in Gran’s company; she had that look down perfectly.

“Very well,” she answered in the modulated, slightly condescending tone often used by the peerage to indicate polite displeasure. She’d managed to pick that up from Gran as well. Of that, Jon had no doubt.

As Annabella slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, he became certain of two things: his wife and his grandmother had formed a closer bond than he’d expected, and he likely was well along the road to the fiery pits of hell as a result.

“Excellent. I’ve asked Mr. Mosely to bring about the town coach,” announced Gran. “While we’re waiting, my dear, won’t you join me for a bit of chocolate and pastry? I’m thinking when you return we’ll go to the north tower and practice more shooting from on high.”

Surprise bolted through his system. “You’ve been shooting from the tower?”

“Of course,” murmured Gran. She addressed Annabella with a raised eyebrow. “Twice now, isn’t it?”

“Three times, your grace.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” said Gran, nodding. “Yesterday morning.”

“I know what you’re about, Gran,” said Jon through a forced smile as he seated Annabella at the table. If his meddling grandmother truly believed that forcing him to keep company with his wife was going to trim Annabella’s thorny attitude, he feared she was sorely mistaken.

Gran leveled her most innocent stare in his direction. “Why, Jonathan, anyone can see I’m having my morning meal.” She favored him with an indulgent chuckle as one might a child. “Of course you know what I’m about.”

Jon stared back, his message silent.
I’ll deal with you later.

Gran smiled at him then bit into a blackberry tart.

“You may send someone from the kitchen for the cats’
fish
,” he muttered, stalking from the room without looking back.

~~~~

Riding in the
town coach was less rickety and much quieter, but Annabella found herself comparing the stuffy enclosed cab with the airy open trip to Blakemoor on their arrival in Coventry. Seated across from her, Seabrook occupied most of the time with his head turned toward the window. Was he lost in his thoughts? Or avoiding her company? He was going to end up with a very sore neck if he kept up that twist of his head.

Annabella shifted in the seat so she could look out her own window. Green shrubbery, green grass, brown and gray stone fence, a flock of birds cavorting over the rolling meadow… She sighed.

Why should I be mindful of his comfort when he obviously cares so little about mine? Foppish little toad, dragging me across the country without so much as a warning, and when he gets me where he wants me, what does he do but bloody ignore me? The black-hearted fiend. I should just—

“Beg pardon?” His smooth tones interrupted her thoughts. “I’m sorry, Annie, I didn’t catch what you said.”

Annabella caught her breath. Had she spoken her thoughts? What had he heard? Unable to form an answer, she turned to meet his gaze.

The way he lounged with apparent comfort against the back of the padded seat, one leg crossed over the other, his arms folded over his chest, it would be easy to think Seabrook was at ease and uncaring of his surroundings. But those glittering dark eyes as he leveled a stare in her direction, one eyebrow raised in query, spoke of acute awareness. Oh, he’d heard something… If only she could figure out how much she’d actually spoken.

“I… I…” Her throat closed off the apology she felt the need to offer.

“Oh, come now, Annie. You? At a loss for words?” He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “I believe I heard something about a fiend amid your mutterings. I must assume you’re making reference to me.”

“And
I
believe my parents named me Annabella.” She returned to gazing through the window. She had no idea what she expected to find out there. Inspiration for yet another lie, or at least a denial. Barring that, perhaps she could find a hole to swallow her, an entrance to Lucifer’s lair hidden among the smelting chimneys.

What she saw instead was a neat row of fieldstone houses, all connected to one another. The sound of the coach’s wheels had changed as well, from the muffled whisper along the dirt lane to the clack and clatter of rolling over cobblestones.

She turned away from the window with a frown. “When did we get to Coventry?” Astounding that she hadn’t noticed the change in the rocking and pitching of the carriage.

His lips twisted into a sardonic half-smile. “I believe it was sometime between your allusions to a ‘foppish toad’ and a ‘black-hearted fiend.’”

Devil’s breath!

The carriage slowed and finally came to a halt.

Annabella glanced through the window again then spread her fan and waved it at her heated face, striving for an air of nonchalance. “Where are we now?”

“The public clinic,” said Seabrook as the footman opened the door.

“The clinic!” Annabella snorted. “Have you come down with some disease of the depraved, Seabrook?”

His smile faded. “As it happens, I am conducting an errand for my grandmother, who is a benefactor of the clinic,” he stated, the words laced with ice.

You and your sharp tongue, Annabella!
The flames already engulfing her face only intensified.

Seabrook alighted then turned and stared at her. Hard. Her heart quivered under the scrutiny.

All of Annabella’s muscles seemed to turn to stone. For just a moment, she thought he meant to throttle her right there in the carriage on a public street. She wanted to run, but where would she go? She darted a glance around the interior of the carriage, seeking relief from his frosty stare to no avail. Too late she realized he’d been holding out his hand to help her down.

His gaze locked with hers, hurt clouding his dark eyes, and he let his hand fall. “Is there nothing about me that you don’t find objectionable? Not even one small thing you can bring yourself to tolerate?”

Her heart thumped in and out of her chest, making it difficult to breathe. She tried to shelter her face from his scrutiny by lifting her fan, but her fingers refused to cooperate, and she fumbled, managing only to drop the thing at her feet.

Seabrook bent and swept it up then folded it closed. “You seem to lose this with alarming frequency for something to which you apparently hold great attachment.” He grasped her right hand and slapped the fan into her palm. Even through her gloves her skin stung.

Annabella gulped, but the words of apology she owed him stubbornly refused to form. She sat stunned and unable to move. For the first time since meeting Seabrook, she felt truly soiled, but not by anything he’d done.

He continued to search her face for several heartbeats, and she stared back, willing him to understand, to see the regret she couldn’t bring herself to voice. But he turned away with a miniscule shake of his head.

“I shall be but a moment.” Without another word, he left her behind and stalked into the building.

“Sea— Oh! Wait!” Annabella scrambled from the carriage, brushing off assistance from the footman. Her knees threatened to buckle as she picked her way over the cobblestone paving, struggling to catch up and take in her new surroundings at the same time.

The building was ancient, its stones stained dark. Moss coated the base, and ivy clung along one side. Quite obviously it had once been a church. A brass plaque embedded in the cornerstone, blackened with age and barely readable, bore the name St. Michael’s.

An odor, sour and fetid, reached out to her from beyond the threshold. The sulfurous scent from the smelting chimneys would have been a blessing, but all she could smell was sickness and despair.

She halted her chase at the bottom of the steps and stared at the door. For the first time, she noticed a steady stream of people climbing the stone staircase and entering the clinic. Struggling not to breathe in the scents of sickness and death, she raced up the steps and yanked open the door, hurrying to catch up with Seabrook.

Once inside, she took a moment and allowed her eyes to adjust to the dim lighting, astounded to find herself in the narthex, which had been made into a waiting area.

People of all ages seemed to swarm like bees to a hive. Women with fussy babies sat on the rough hewn benches lining the stone walls. A few children hopped about with the energy of lightning in a thunderstorm, but most of the little ones rested with their mothers. A group of men lounged near the door. Giving her polite nods, they stepped apart and allowed her to pass.

She scanned the teeming mass of humanity, seeking her husband. Finally, she spotted him on the other side of the room. He was speaking with an older woman garbed in dark blue wool. It was a practical dress and not at all fashionable, and she wore a white apron, dingy and stained, over it. Obviously a nurse of some sort.

She slowed her steps a few feet away, unsure if she should approach them or not. They seemed deep in conversation, from the few words she could make out. Would Seabrook see it as an intrusion?

Thumps and bangs arose behind her, accompanied by a few alarmed murmurs from the crowd, and Annabella turned. Several grimy men had made their way through the door. They bore another man on their shoulders. His face was a ghastly shade of gray, and dark liquid seeped through one of his trouser legs.

Annabella looked away from the awful sight.

Nearby, a girl, far too young to be a mother, clutched a screaming infant to her shoulder while the woman next to her comforted a slightly older child with blotchy red cheeks.