“Clemmie,” Olive said, and Clementine had to look around as her sister’s voice suddenly seemed farther away, as if she were speaking from the far end of a long tunnel. She was surprised to see Lord Featherfinch in the process of handing Olive up onto one of the horses. “When did you last eat?”
“I . . .” Was that what this unsettling sensation was? Hunger?
Clementine’s attention was drawn by the approach of Archie. It wasn’t that he made any noise, but she somehow knew when he was near. She always had.
He and Simon Courteney, the Earl of Marsden, were striding purposefully toward them. The blood at Archie’s shoulder was now showing through his coat, and she observed with dismay that he was also bleeding from a cut on his face. Lord Marsden was cradling one fist in the opposite palm, as if it pained him.
They had extracted their promise, and it had cost them.
Clementinewashungry, but she was also . . . overcome. By all she had lost—no, by what she hadgiven away, she corrected herself ruthlessly, and she didn’t just mean her maidenhood. She had surrendered that, but also her regard, her careful attention, herloyalty. She was overcome, too, by the nearness of the fate her sister had so narrowly escaped. And by the goodness of her old friend coming to her rescue.
Her knees started to wobble.
“She’s going down!” she heard one of the men—not Archie—yell.
Strong arms caught her. She tilted her face to the sky. It was still there. Still blue. It would not be this blue in London. She needed to look her fill now.
“We’ll have to double up on one of the horses.” ThatwasArchie speaking.
One of the other men said, “Hand her up here.”
“I’ll take her,” Archie said gruffly.
“But your arm,” the other not-Archie male voice protested.
“She’s with me,” Archie said in a tone that brooked no argument, and then she was floating, up, up, up toward the sky she so loved.
She cried out involuntarily when the floating stopped, but then those strong arms came around her again. A jostling started, but somehow its effect was buffeted by the arms. It felt more like rocking.
“I’ve got you, Clem,” he whispered. “I’ve got you.” And he did. She knew he did.
* * *
Two hours later, when Archie, his friends, and the Morgan sisters—one conscious, one not—turned up the drive to Quintrell Castle, horses and humans alike run through with exhaustion, Archie had just enough pretense of mind left to note that, normally, he would be rolling his eyes at the pile of limestone ahead of them. The ancient keep looked as though the removal of one stone would cause the whole structure to come crumbling down. As they drew closer, it became apparent that the more modern house—modern being a relative term, for he guessed the house was at least two hundred years old—attached to the fortification was not in much better condition. Its slate roof was missing quite a lot of pieces, and the tower nearest them appeared ready to collapse in on itself. The forest, which had been allowed to encroach onto the castle grounds, was poised to reclaim the property. One could almost imagine beleaguered Macbeth holed up in the castle as Birnham Wood encroached. They were very near Scotland, after all.
This was what happened when Effie was in charge of planning an Earls Trip. He got some fanciful notion in his head, and lo, they’d be off to some wildly impractical spot or other. This time, Effie had been offered the use of the property by an acquaintance of his, a fellow writer who was apparently not in residence this autumn.
“It’s rumored to be haunted,” Effie had said by way of explanation when pressed as to why they needed to undertake such a long journey when any of them could offer up a country house at a moment’s notice. Acomfortablecountry house. A house with an intact roof.
As they approached, their attention was drawn by the sudden, shrill cawing of a bird. Archie looked up to see a raven circling what he suspected had once been a guardhouse. It alit on a turret, and Effie exclaimed, “Marvelous.”
So, yes, under normal circumstances, Archie would be cursing the fact that they’d allowed Effie free rein with the holiday planning. But now, he was just so damned glad to have arrived somewhere—anywhere. His shoulder throbbed, and though Olive’s hypothesis that Clementine’s condition was due to hunger-induced light-headedness was likely correct, he was worried. He wanted to get some food into Clementine, check her for injuries—and, once he was assured she was all right, shout at her until his voice went hoarse.
They made their way past the ruined guardhouse and looked around for signs of life—a groom, perhaps? Anyone? Archie considered the notion that one benefit of this remote, run-down pile of stones might be that the arrival of three gentlemen and two unmarried women would not be quite the problem he had assumed. He’d begun to allow himself to hope, as he’d confronted Theodore Bull at the inn, that hewouldn’thave to marry one of the Morgan sisters. But as they’d ridden away as if the devil himself was on their heels, it’d occurred to him that they weren’t out of the woods. They would need a plausible explanation for the presence of unmarried women among their party when they arrived at Quintrell Castle. He’d been going to suggest he pose as Olive and Clementine’s older brother. It wasn’t that far from the truth, given how intertwined their childhoods had been.
But perhaps such subterfuge would not be necessary. Perhaps theywereout of the woods.
Except, of course, for the whole forest-literally-encroaching-on the grounds bit.
“Let’s walk the horses in and see if we can rouse anybody,” Effie said.
“Dear God,” Simon exhaled as they made their approach. Archie’s sense that the forest had overtaken the grounds wasn’t entirely true, or at least it wasn’t true right here. They appeared to be in a large topiary garden. Except instead of the usual spheres and pyramids, or even swans and dragons, the entire park was populated by depictions of the male anatomy in its at-attention state. There must have been three dozen individual plants of different sizes, each painstakingly shaped into a prick and bollocks.
“Featherfinch!” Simon said censoriously, even as it was apparent he was trying not to laugh.
“Yes, well,” Effie said brusquely, “Sir Lionel did say he was a hobbyist.”
“A hobbyist of what sort?” Simon pressed. “Are we, in fact, talking about gardening, or something more . . . ?” He wagged his eyebrows and snickered.
