Page 4 of The Duke’s Suspicion

Chapter 2

Half awake, Erica bolted upright. Pain stabbed through her neck and down her back, driving away her drowsiness. Where—? Why—? Her eyes fell on the sleeping form of Mr. Laurens, slumped in his chair, chin resting against his chest.

Oh.

Sunlight poured in through the cracks around the shutter, illuminating the dingy room, with its cracked plaster walls and broken furnishings. It was a wonder the cottage hadn’t collapsed around them while they slept. The light picked out the features of Mr. Laurens’s face, too, considerably less timeworn than their surroundings. Why, he wasn’t much older than she, certainly not thirty. His tawny hair caught the sun, while a day’s growth of darker beard shadowed his square jaw. Not a bad-looking face, but she refused to think of him as handsome. No one who took such obvious delight in giving orders could ever be appealing to her.

Silently, she stretched her stiff muscles—another unladylike habit for which her mother frequently chided her—and let his greatcoat slide off her shoulders as she picked up her journal and rose. If the storm was over and the sun was shining, then she must make her way, either back to the village or on toward Windermere, and hope her sister never asked where she had spent the night.

She managed to lift the door latch without rattling it. This was hardly the first morning she had arisen early and been eager to get out of doors. Leather hinges creaked and the bottom of the door dragged through the groove it had worn into the dirt floor. A quick glance over her shoulder confirmed that Mr. Laurens slept on, however. A little wider, and she could slip through. She’d just snatch her pelisse from the hook, and—

“Miss Burke?”

“A Thiarna Dia!”

Molly had taught her the oath. Not deliberately, of course. Erica had managed to pick it up after years of startling the family’s housemaid in the kitchen. And on the stairs. And, on one particularly memorable occasion, at the back door, as Erica was sneaking in from an early morning stroll and Molly was stepping out to empty the slops.

“You cannot be thinking of leaving, Miss Burke?”

She could hear an edge of annoyance in his voice. The same voice that yesterday had snapped, “What in God’s name are you doing?” Well, he might have made a plan for when and how she’d leave this cottage, but she had never agreed to wait around for his help or protection. She didn’t need either one.

Determinedly, she turned back to tell him so. And discovered him standing just inches away now, one hand on the partially open door, blocking her way. Her pulse quickened. Did he mean to keep her prisoner? What would she do if he slammed the door shut and latched it?

Instead, he swung it wide, ducked under the lintel, and stood with his arms crossed behind his back, filling the opening. “Just as I feared.”

Curiosity got the better of her, though she was forced to peer around his shoulder to satisfy it. The sight that greeted her eyes was breathtaking. In the way a swift blow to the stomach might take one’s breath away.

The cottage had been built on a little rise. If it had not, they might have been standing ankle-deep in water. Ponds had formed in every hollow and dip. The roadway on which she had intended to walk to Windermere was now a river of mud. Wind had stripped the autumn leaves from the trees. They floated over the ground in spills of tarnished gold and blood red, leaving bare, wintry branches to scratch at the sky like ghostly hands. And though the sun shone down mercilessly on this scene of devastation, on the western horizon, dark clouds were gathering. More rain was on its way.

“Still determined to strike out on your own this fine morning?” He did not glance her way as he spoke.

“I—”

Oh, why hadn’t she bothered to learn a few more Irish curses? She could’ve used them now, for this was a fine mess. For once, it seemed unlikely her sister would catch her in it, but she could not take consolation in the thought. What if Cami had discovered her missing, turned back to find her, and been trapped—or worse—by the storm and its aftermath?

“A Thiarna Dia.”

This time, the words took the form of a whispered prayer.

“Well,” said Mr. Laurens, “I can see just one solution.”

“And what would that be?” She could see only water.

He turned from the door. Reflexively, she stepped out of his way, though he did not seem to notice. He moved as though he was used to people clearing a path before him. She fought a childish impulse to stretch out one toe and trip him.

“I have a house not three miles east as the crow flies,” he said. “We can reach it before that storm cloud does, if we make haste.”

Her mind bounded like a hare, chased from one question to the next. How could they travel safely through all that water? But if they stayed put, with no food and no way to build a fire, how long could they survive?

And if his own home stood so near, what had possessed him to stop here?

The last, of course, could not be asked. Even she understood that. They were, after all, almost perfect strangers. Still, curiosity itched at her, a rash she was desperate to scratch—worse, even, than the day she’d thrust an ungloved hand into a patch of leaves and found stinging nettles hiding beneath.

Fortunately, before the question could form on her lips, he strode across the room to collect his greatcoat. “My horse is stabled in the lean-to at the back of the cottage. You’ll ride. I’ll lead her, so as to guide her through the worst dangers. If we stick to the higher ridges, we should reach Hawesdale by midday.”

Her fingers closed once more on her pelisse. “Hawesdale? Is that the name of the town from which you hail? Perhaps there’s an inn there where I can wait for the weather to turn. I would not wish to—”

“Hawesdale is the name of the house. Hawesdale Chase.” He shrugged into his greatcoat. “No inn, I’m afraid. Not even much of a village. You’ll have to stay with me.”