The Rake and the Recluse REDUX (a time travel romance) (7 page)

Mrs. Weston wandered the manor, surveying the work of the under servants. The past days had run into countless tense and nerve-racking hours of seeing to her new charge. She never knew quite what to expect from their guest, so she stayed up most nights keeping watch—and slept hardly at all during the days as well, tending her customary duties. She knew she was wearing thin.

Francine wasn’t speaking and seemed fearful, but she had trusted Mrs. Weston enough to share her name and would soon begin to trust her with more, the housekeeper hoped. It wouldn’t be long before everything would settle down or Francine’s family would come looking for her.

The thought arrested Mrs. Weston and she suddenly frowned. She didn’t want everything back to normal. She realized normal hadn’t been all that wonderful; it had been mundane. The manor was run smoothly and efficiently; Roxleigh had seen to that. And he was a generous master and duke. The tenants had no complaints and when they did they were seen to. She itched for something to happen beyond the silver needing polished. Again.

Roxleigh had a novel way of running his lands, and his management had turned Eildon into a more profitable estate than it had ever been. She knew that Roxleigh’s father, Darius—the previous duke—had very nearly driven the estate into the ground. He was resentful of his life and his station. He blamed the world for his misfortunes and didn’t see the most blessed part of his life, his son, right before him.

It was a tragedy to see him work himself to an early grave, but there had been no helping him after—

No
. She stopped that train of thought. Things were different. She could feel it in her marrow. There was something happening and it was all coming along with the girl upstairs.

Mrs. Weston finished her rounds and headed straight to the private parlor where she witnessed something she thought never to see again—and she screamed.

Francine stumbled from the window. She cried out, but the sound was trapped in her vocal chords, and she put one hand to her mouth, the other to her throat. Shaking from her toes to her shoulders with fright, she nearly fell to the floor as Mrs. Weston rushed over. She looked into the woman’s round, gentle face and saw the infusion of fear. She dared not utter a word.

“Apologies, Miss Francine, you gave me a start. What were you doing?” Mrs. Weston asked nervously. Francine shook her head. She glanced at the window, trying to figure out what was so fearful as to cause Mrs. Weston to scream like that.

“Miss Francine,” Mrs. Weston said with a disapproving look on her face. “I know you do not speak, but I also know you can. And if you do not tell me what you were doing at that window, I will have to inform His Grace about exactly what I saw. I cannot take a chance on this. Go back to your silence afterward if you must, but trust me now or there’ll be hell to pay when he returns.”

Francine looked into the woman’s eyes, noting the well-masked concern. She certainly didn’t want a bad word to get to
him
. She glanced toward the window. She was keenly aware that her existence here at the manor was conditional and if she disrupted him she might be sent away. It was that unknown that she couldn’t bear, even though she had become accustomed to it. She’d faced that before, when the police came to take her away after her parents died, and now as a grown woman she dreaded it even more.

“I…” She cleared her throat gingerly. She could handle no more than a whisper, and even that strained and tightened the muscles of her throat to a thick, scraping ache.

“Go on now, out with it,” Mrs. Weston prodded. Francine clutched her hands together.

“I don’t want to be sent away,” she cried, and with that she wept. Mrs. Weston put one of her soft arms around Francine’s shoulders, pulling her down to the settee and cradling her against her ample chest.

“There, there, miss, don’t fret. I will see that you stay. Why, only now I was looking to tell you that His Grace gave me leave to have some gowns made for you. Is that not a wonderful thing? If he was intending to send you away, would he be seeing to your comfort?” Mrs. Weston asked.

Francine shook her head. “No, I don’t suppose so,” she said.

“All right then, tell me, what has got to you? Why were you going out the window like that?” Mrs. Weston asked.

Francine stared at her. Out the window? She wasn’t out the window; she was at the window. Wasn’t she? She never went out the window. Realization dawned and she sat up straight, looking at Mrs. Weston in horror. “Oh, no. No! I wasn’t going anywhere!”

She groaned and clasped her throat. She struggled to speak, both of her hands massaging, trying to coax the words out as she sought to explain. “I was only feeling the breeze, I—I just, felt the breeze, I felt—” She shook her head. “I saw him on the horse and—” She clenched her eyes against the pain and tried to continue. “They were running toward the forest and it looked so—” Her breath caught in her throat; her voice was done.

“All right, miss, calm yourself. There, there, calm yourself.” Mrs. Weston moved Francine to a chair by the fireplace and rang for a maid.

“Meggie, put the kettle on and have tea sent up,” she said when the girl entered.

When Meggie returned, Mrs. Weston poured some hot water into the teapot and the rest into a dish on the tray, soaking a soft cloth. She wrung it out and brought it over to Francine, wrapping it around her throat.

“There’ll be no more words from you for a time, I’d say.” Mrs. Weston considered Francine with a stern face as she stood directly in front of her. “I just have one question. I expect the truth from you, and if I don’t get it, I will know it. Do you understand me, miss?” Francine nodded. “Did you intend to fall from the window, miss? Did you intend to die today?” she whispered.

Francine shook her head until her hair tangled around her fingers as they held the cloth at her neck. Mrs. Weston shook her head, too. “Oh, there now, miss, you’re making yourself a fright. I believe you, just— I had to know. You see? I’m in charge of you, and I need to know if something is not as it should be. Do you understand?”

Francine nodded. “Please,” she croaked, barely audible, her eyes stinging with tears.

Mrs. Weston pushed her long unruly hair out of her face. She loosed the knot, since it was halfway to being undone anyway, and smoothed the mane down her back.

“Settle there, miss. We’ll talk again when you’re ready. Don’t try yourself further. I’m sorry if I caused you any pain. I will send for the doctor to come look at you, to see to your…” Mrs. Weston patted her own throat and Francine nodded, relaxing.

She looked up at Mrs. Weston, wondering why everyone seemed to have a deep spark of terror shielded in their eyes, as though she were completely naked, or bleeding profusely, or wielding a knife. No one seemed to have a peaceful moment around her; they were strained and overwrought, but she believed them when they said she wouldn’t be sent away as long as she behaved, just like in the foster homes. She would stay here; Mrs. Weston would see to it.

Mrs. Weston poured a cup of steaming tea with honey to help relax Francine’s strained throat and nerves. She glanced at Francine as she stirred the tea and set it on the table next to her. She believed Francine. She believed that the girl hadn’t intended to throw herself from the window. The problem, however, was that she hadn’t believed the Duchess of Roxleigh had intended to, either.

Roxleigh vaulted Samson into a clearing bordered by forest and river, then leaned back in the saddle, slowing him to a trot. This particular stretch of the Teviot Water was slow and peaceful, with very little slope to hurry it along. It widened, creating a welcoming pool, before it turned back into the forest where it began the descent to the River Tweed. He had visited this place all his life, swimming in the clear waters to find his own peace.

He dismounted, falling to the grass of the meadow, his thoughts still racing as Samson meandered close by, grazing and drinking from the pool. Although he couldn’t stand the thought of the girl in his home, neither could he tolerate having her hauled off to Bedlam.

Roxleigh didn’t have time for this preoccupation. He needed to be done with the entire situation.

He stood and checked Samson’s hooves, then walked to the water’s edge, his steed following faithfully. He was damp with sweat, his clothes stained from the leaves of trees—he was most thoroughly disheveled from the ride. He should never have left in such a hurry. At the least he should have finished dressing, retrieved his gloves and jacket, but he needed to be away. To ride the way he did through the forest was madness, and he knew it. He felt a mess: unfinished, improper, uncomfortable and, in general, confused.

He didn’t
need
any more distractions right now. The architect was on his way to begin measuring and plotting the reconstruction of some of the unused and impossible areas of the manor. The work needed to be closely overseen if he was to host an extended house party at the end of the summer, something he was looking forward to with rampant trepidation.

He rolled his open cuffs to his elbows, examining the cuts on his forearms and hands from the whip-like tree branches that had assaulted him in the forest. He put his hands to his face and with a great roar crouched at the edge of the pond on his boulder. The rock was large and flat-topped, tilting into the water’s edge. He threw water at his face, letting the rivulets course down his shoulders and chest.

He closed his eyes, allowing the serenity of the meadow to wash over him like the sound of the lapping pool. He rolled back on the rock and rested his head on his hands as his mind drifted to Francine and the day she came to Eildon Hill.

In his head he heard the crash of the tray against the wall and entered the room. She was completely alone and dressed only in a chemise so thin he could see through it. Her long, chestnut hair draped around her shoulders like a velvet cape as she stood quietly at the window, gazing out at his land.

The sun rose over the forest and golden light filtered through the silk, outlining her soft figure against the glass. The length of her hair gently brushed the curve of her backside as she shifted, forcing the muscles in his stomach to tense.

He imagined dragging his fingers across her waist, letting her curls fall back to her body, sending shivers across her flesh. He stalked across the room, his eyes taking in the curve of her ankle, the dimples behind her knees, the crease that met the sumptuous curve of her buttocks.

He longed to drag his fingers nimbly across that sensitive fold and, in a breath, he was kneeling before her as she turned toward him. His hands smoothed up her thighs, gathering the chemise on his forearms and leaving a trail of gooseflesh in his wake. Embracing her hips, his thumbs rested on the pulse points, which hastened with his touch at the seam between hip and belly.

His breath stirred the delicate fabric of her chemise as it rested on his arms, and he felt the muscles of her abdomen tense. He nudged it aside with his nose and placed his mouth on her skin, dragging his lips from one indented hip to the other, breathing heavy sighs of warmth into the triangle of curls at his chin. She wavered slightly and he moved one hand to her backside to steady her as he drew the other hand down her leg, gently lifting it over his shoulder.

She placed a hand on his head, tangling her fingers in his hair as he turned and kissed the inside of her raised thigh, stroking it with his fingers from one bend to the next. His cheek brushed against her and her hand fell to his nape, urging him on.

Taking her hips, he pressed her back against the window’s edge, caressing her heated skin. The chill at her back from the window and the heat of his hands on her skin must have called forth the whimper that escaped her lips, and she dropped her head back against the fogged glass, streaking the dew.