Authors: Suzanne Enoch
Quin straightened. “Now just a damned minute—”
“I’m going to sell this blasted place,” Rafe growled, ripping the paper out of his father’s fingers, “for as much as I can make off it.”
“And then what, you idiot? Gamble it or whore it away?”
Rafe stuffed the paper back into his coat pocket. “I’m going to travel,” he stated sharply. “You may own half of England, but you don’t own the Colonies, or the southern Americas, or the Orient. And you don’t by God own me. Mother, Maddie, good day.”
His gaze lingered for a moment on Julia, and then he strode out the door and slammed it behind him so hard the windows rattled.
Julia sat looking at the door. “My,” she muttered faintly.
The door flew open again. “Beeks!”
The startled butler stepped forward. “Yes, Master Rafael?”
“I’m taking my kit with me. Box the rest of my things. I’ll send word if I need any of it.”
“Very good, sir.”
The door slammed again.
“Go stop him, Julia, before he does something he’ll regret,” the duke blustered.
She faced her husband, trying to remain calm. It would do no good if she exploded as well, much as she would like to. “You think I could stop him, Lewis? After what you said to him?”
“After what
I
said? Bah. A good riddance to him, then.”
Maddie and Quin looked at each other, clearly dismayed, and Julia sat back in her chair. She wondered if Lewis realized that, barring a miracle, he’d just lost a son. Apparently Rafe’s next challenge was to escape the Bancrofts.
R
afe arrived in Cheshire three days later. By the time he rode up the muddy, rutted road that led to Forton Hall, he’d decided to begin his travels in India—though Japan still had a definite pull. If the Hall was of decent-enough size and location, he would never have to worry about money or his independence from the duke again.
At the last inn the locals looked at him with obvious curiosity, and then gave him directions. He hoped it wasn’t their idea of rural humor to send him into the middle of a bog, or something. Four miles west he came upon Crown Creek and its stone bridge, as they had instructed. If it wasn’t the right direction, at least it was picturesque. He crossed the old bridge, then pulled up his bay, Aristotle.
He couldn’t recall that he’d ever been to Cheshire before. It was one of the few counties where the Bancrofts didn’t have a holding, so according to his father’s thinking, it had little to recommend it. A pair of redwing thrushes, a hundred miles south of their usual summer range, fluted at him and vanished into the surrounding woodlands of scattered beech, ash, and maple. It was beautiful country, the fresh green a welcome change from his last two months in southern Africa during the
dry season. The hills of neighboring Derbyshire rose dimly blue-gray to the east, and he could almost smell the ocean to the west on the slight, cool breeze.
Rafe smiled, humming a waltz tune, as he sent Aristotle forward again. Pretty, quiet, green country—just the type of land that would fetch the best price from prospective landowners. Sometimes he simply couldn’t believe his own good fortune. Nigel Harrington was a complete fool to have parted with Forton Hall for a hundred-quid wager.
An overgrown hedge curved northwest and merged into a chaos of yellow-flowered weeds and tall grass. Rafe’s gaze followed the drive up the slight rise, to the doorway of Forton Hall itself. The smile dropped from his face.
“Damnation,” he swore. “Damn, damn, damn.”
He slowly dismounted, unable to take his gaze from the complete wreck before him.
The entire west wing of the house had caved in on itself, with small sections of rafter and wall still sticking up into the sky like the bleached rib bones of a great whale. Broken shutters lay in tumbled heaps of wood and shrubbery at the foot of the pitted white walls, while the coverings that remained hung at crazy angles from the windows. Broken glass, plaster, wood, stone, and shingles flattened the remains of what might once have been a pretty rose garden.
“Good God,” he muttered, leading Aristotle gingerly through the maze of destruction spilling out onto the overgrown lawn. In Belgium he’d helped bring down fortifications, and Forton Hall looked just like a place hit by cannon and a keg or two of blasting powder.
He dropped the gelding’s reins, and with a hand
motion ordered Aristotle to stay put. Broken glass crunched beneath his boots as he made his way up through the tattered vines covering the shallow front steps. Only one of the double doors remained on its bronzed hinges, while someone had hammered the other door into position with a pair of awkwardly placed cross supports. The door scraped across the floor and gave an earsplitting squeak as he pushed it cautiously open. He stepped inside, and a small flock of sparrows chirruped at him and flew through a jagged hole that had once been the beginning of the west wing.
The stairs winding up to the east wing’s second story were intact, though he was unwilling to vouch for their sturdiness with half the building gone. At least the walls and most of the roof of the other wing remained.
Apparently Nigel Harrington hadn’t been the biggest idiot playing faro that night. No one in his right mind would ever purchase such a spectacular wreck. And taxes on the land and the broken windows and whatever pitiful crops remained would still be due.
Swearing at Harrington, himself, and everyone else who hadn’t won that last hand of faro, Rafe kicked the remains of a chair into a corner. The best he could hope for was that Harrington had left behind enough valuables to pay off any debts already owing, so he could declare the place abandoned and walk away. Five hundred pounds had seemed a wealth of ready cash when he only needed it for the time it took to sell the estate. Now it was all he had.
“Won’t Father be amused,” he muttered, entering the dining room. A mishmash of clutter covered the table and the chairs, and lay stacked in every corner. Angrily he shoved the table aside and
pushed on the door that would lead to the first floor sitting rooms. It wasn’t locked, but something held it closed from the other side. He put his shoulder against the door and shoved harder. It didn’t budge.
“Wonderful. Bloody, bloody wonderful. I’ve won a blasted rat’s nest,” he snarled, backing a few steps and running at the door. “Ouch! Blast.” Rafe rubbed at his shoulder and glared at the barrier for a long moment.
“Don’t you want this?” a muffled voice said.
The sound came through the half-open door leading back into the hallway. Not only did he
not
have a saleable estate, now he had thieves scavenging what little remained of it.
“Not for long,” he murmured, and slipped out into the hallway.
Whoever they were, they weren’t attempting stealth. Undoubtedly they thought the owner had abandoned the estate. A grim smile curved his lips. They were about to find out differently.
Someone
deserved a beating for this disaster.
Felicity Harrington set down the armful of gowns she’d salvaged from the collapsed remains of her bedchamber. It had rained again yesterday, and everything was damp. Thankfully, hanging them in the kitchen around the stove seemed to be drying them out and keeping them from getting musty. Before much longer, though, both her and May’s things would be hopelessly mildewed.
“What should we do about Nigel’s things?” May asked, as she set shoes down to dry around the stove.
“They come last,” Felicity stated, putting a finger through a hole in her favorite morning dress. “If ever.”
May chuckled. “He won’t be very happy when he sees all his clothes turned green.”
Felicity smiled. “Green and fuzzy.”
“Green and fuzzy and
smelly
.”
The door slammed open. With a gasp, Felicity whipped around just as something tall, hard, and heavy hit her, throwing them both to the floor. She shrieked.
“Damnation!” the brick wall on top of her growled in a deep voice.
She kicked out, and her attacker grunted as she made contact. “May, run!” she yelled, kicking again.
He shifted off her, and as she struggled to her knees she glimpsed tousled blond hair and a scar. Crying out again, she swung her fist into his face as hard as she could.
He grabbed her arm, yanking her off balance again. “Ouch! Don’t—”
Felicity rammed his chest with an elbow, and he backed off and raised a hand as though to ward her off.
“Get out!” Flinging her hair out of her face, she shoved at him again. He was kneeling on her skirt, keeping her pinned to the floor. He intercepted her arm as she struck at him again, and twisted it behind her before she could even gasp.
“Look,” he panted into her hair. “I’m sor—”
He jerked forward and collapsed on top of her. May stood behind him, a dented copper tea kettle gripped in both hands.
Felicity squirmed out from under her attacker and grabbed a stout stick of firewood as she scrambled to her feet. “I told you to run, May,” she managed, her heart hammering madly.
“You wouldn’t have,” her sister said, boldly tapping the man’s head with the tea kettle again. It
bonked hollowly. “Do you think I killed him?”
“I shouldn’t think so,” Felicity answered, looking at him more closely. He’d fallen on his face, and blood trickled from the back of his skull onto the floor. “Good Lord. Help me tie him up, and then we’ll send someone for the constable.”
“Send who?”
“Whom,” she automatically corrected.
“Send whom?” May repeated.
Oh, dear—she had no one
to
send. “Send me, I suppose. Both of us.” Felicity glanced up at May. “Run to the stable and get some rope. Hurry.”
“All right.” May handed over the kettle. “Here. Bash him with this if he moves.”
Felicity stifled an entirely inappropriate grin. “Thank you, my dear.”
Once May had gone, Felicity studied her attacker. Her first sense had been correct—he was definitely tall, and lean though well-muscled. Golden-blond, disheveled hair hung into his face, so she couldn’t see what he looked like. His clothing surprised her. He dressed like a gentleman—one in need of a change of clothes and a shave and bath, but a gentleman, nonetheless.
He groaned and she jumped, instinctively thwacking him across the head again. The man jerked and went still.
Felicity shuddered. Horrified that she might have finished him off, she leaned down closer to his face. After a moment she heard his soft breathing, and sighed in relief. It didn’t look as though they’d ever be able to pound the teakettle back into shape again, though.
“Here,” May panted, running in with several long coils of rope draped across her slim shoulders. “It’s all I could find.”
“It’ll do nicely.” Felicity took a length, then
knelt beside the man. She pulled one arm behind his back, while May did the same with his other. She looped the rope around his wrists and tied it as tightly as she could, then knotted it again for good luck. He wore no rings, and while several of his fingers were callused, neither did they look to be the hands of a farmer.
“I’ve got his feet done,” May said a moment later, sitting back.
Apparently May had studied sailors’ knots in her spare time, because Felicity couldn’t make heads or tails of where the ropes began or ended. “They look very sturdy,” she complimented, eyeing her sister. May seemed to be enjoying this rather too much.
“What now?”
“Well, I suppose we should turn him over and finish the job. I don’t want him getting loose while we’re gone into Pelford.”
She took his shoulders, pulling hard against his weight, while May turned his legs. With another pained groan her attacker slowly rolled onto his back, his head thunking solidly against the floor again. “Oh, dear,” she muttered, almost feeling sorry for the poor brute. Felicity looked down at his face for the first time. “Oh, dear,” she repeated.
A painful-looking scar ran from the corner of his left eye, deepened across his high cheekbone, and then trailed off at the line of his jaw. Honey-colored hair partially covered one closed eye, but the scar, together with his arched brows and tanned skin, made him look quite piratical. And exceedingly handsome.
“Do you think he’s a pirate?” May asked, apparently sharing her assessment. She leaned over her sister’s shoulder to get a look at their captive.
“He’s a long way from water, if he is,” Felicity returned slowly, wrapping the remaining rope around his broad chest and hard, flat stomach as tightly as she could and knotting it.
“Perhaps he’s lost, then.”
Somehow Felicity didn’t think so. “Perhaps.”
His eyes fluttered and opened, light green and startled. She gasped and sat backward. “Don’t try anything!” she warned harshly, grabbing for the kettle again.
The eyes tried to focus on her, closed, then opened again and rolled back into his head. “Damned female,” he muttered in a slurred voice, shutting them again.
“He’s drunk,” May declared.
“I don’t smell liquor on him,” Felicity disagreed. “We did hit him rather hard, dear.”
“Do you think we broke his head?”
“We might have.”
“Cracked my skull, you damned assassin,” his deep voice uttered again.
“Watch your language, sir,” Felicity ordered. “There’s a child present.”
The eyes opened again, crossed groggily, then focused on her. “You’re no blasted child,” he said after a moment’s hesitation.
“I am,” May stated, leaning over him again. “Are you a pirate?”
“No.”
“May, keep away. He’s dangerous.”
“Am not,” he muttered. He made as if to sit up, then raised his head a little to look at his bound chest and legs. “Damn,” he repeated, and lay back again, banging his head. “Oh, God! You’ve killed me, I think.”
“We have not. And we’re going to get the constable,” Felicity warned him.
“Good.”
That stopped her. “Why is it a good thing that we should have you arrested?” He was definitely piratical, especially with the thin trickle of blood running past one ear. She swallowed, her mouth dry. Good Lord, she’d captured some sort of splendidly handsome pirate king, and he’d meant to drag her off to the Spanish Main, or somewhere.
“Because I’ll have
you
arrested,” he managed. “Thief.”
“I am not a thief!” she declared indignantly. “You are a…a rogue and an attacker of helpless women!”
“Helpless, my ass.”
Felicity banged the kettle on the floor beside him. “Your language, sir!” she reminded him.
He flinched. “Fine. I’ll watch my language, Miss Helpless.”
She attempted to ignore the cynicism dripping from his voice. “That’s right. Now what do you think you were doing?”
The pirate blinked fuzzily again. “Is this,” he said, enunciating each word as though to be certain he got them out correctly, “is this Forton Hall, in Cheshire?”
For a moment she looked at him. “Yes. Yes, it is.”
“Ha! You’re a damned—you’re a trespasser!”
“
What?
You’re the one who broke into my home and attacked me!”
“Thought you were a man. Besides, it’s
my
house.”
“He’s daft,” May said.
“Am not. Let me up.”
“Absolutely not, sir. For all I know, you’re a mad, knife-wielding murderer.”
“Listen, Miss Helpless. I am Rafael Bancroft,
and Forton Hall is mine. I can prove it.”
Felicity rolled her eyes at his lunacy. “Forton Hall belongs to me, my sister, and my brother.”
The light green gaze sharpened. “What’s your brother’s name?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but Nigel. Nigel Harrington.”
For a moment he stared at her. “Good God!” he burst out. “That blasted, bloody, sniveling, cowardly liar! How in hell—”