The Charmer (23 page)

"And did you mention Lord
Whipple to him?"

She picked up the horse blanket
from where it hung on a hook. "He said he's an acquaintance. I could get
no more out of him on that front."

Orlando took the blanket and
their fingers touched. A jolt of heat surged across her skin.

"Will you come to me
tonight?" she asked, breathy.

He didn't answer immediately, but
waited until after he'd arranged the blanket over Silver's back. "I—"

The sound of approaching footsteps
stopped him. Hendricks appeared at the stable entrance. "Supper's ready, m'lady."
His wrinkles formed a deep frown that he directed at Orlando. "S'pose you
better come in and have some too."

"Go on," Orlando said.
"I'll finish up here."

She followed Hendricks out
without looking back.

***

Susanna fell asleep despite her best
efforts not to. She woke up some time later and crossed to the door leading to
her parlor. To Orlando. "Are you still angry with me?" she asked as
she opened the door.

It was dark in the parlor and no
answer came from the direction of his bed. She padded across the rushes until
her feet hit the mattress and dropped to her knees. She patted the blankets
from foot to base then sat back on her haunches and stared into the blackness.

The mattress was empty. Orlando
was gone.

***

It was easy enough to get into Sutton
Hall. Like many country homes, one of the service doors had been left
unlatched. There was little need to secure a house when everyone knew everyone
else. Besides, all the truly valuable items like the silver plate would be
locked away. Orlando carried his boots past the larders, scullery, and kitchen,
up an inner stairwell to where he guessed the master's apartments to be. Modern
manors followed a similar layout with the best private rooms on the first floor
overlooking the prettiest views. In Sutton Hall's case, the prettiest views
were across the valley to the north, so it was that wing he investigated first.

There was enough moonlight coming
through windows to make out furniture and doors as he carefully opened the
first one off the landing. With any luck it would lead to Lynden's study. Beyond
that would be his private chambers including his bedchamber and wardrobe.

But it was an empty room. He
cursed his pride for not asking Susanna for directions. It was only now that he
was faced with finding his way through a large house that he realized how
foolish that pride was, particularly since he wasn't angry at her but at
himself.
He
was the one who couldn't stop new and unwelcome thoughts
from getting in the way of the task at hand.

She
seemed to be having no such
difficulty.

Bloody hell. Susanna's suggestion
that she knew him as little as she knew Monk, and the implication that she
didn't trust him, had sent him reeling. He may have lied to her, but she could
trust him nevertheless. How could she not know that after what had passed
between them during their lovemaking? Had she not felt what he'd felt?

Damnation. He wasn't supposed to
feel
anything.

Concentrate, Holt.
If he didn't stop thinking about
Susanna, he was going to find himself in the wrong room at the wrong end of a
sword.

He tried the second door off the
landing with more success. The moonlight streaming through the large window
illuminated a desk, chairs, and coffers. The study at last. He went inside but
left the door open a little. The desk was long and papers littered the surface.
He read some, but they appeared to be estate accounts and letters to London
tailors. No letter to or from Lord Whipple or anyone else Orlando recognized.
He checked inside a casket on the far corner of the desk but it held only spare
quills and ink. The only other casket on the desk was locked. The two large
coffers on the floor were also locked. He tried the casket first.

The thin tools made of bone that
Hughe had given each of the Guild members when they joined quickly opened the
padlock. Orlando lifted the lid and angled the casket to the moonlight. Inside
were dozens of pieces of crumpled and torn parchment.

He removed the small pack from
his back and tipped the pieces inside. With the pack slung across his back and
his boots once more in hand, he was out the door and down the stairs before the
count of five.

"Halt! Who's there?" shouted
out a voice. Monk.

Hell
.

Orlando ran. Monk ran after him.

"Halt, fool, or I'll use my
blade."

Try
.

Orlando detoured into the kitchen
and headed for the door leading outside, but someone had locked it. He pressed
his back against the wood, assessed his options. It was dark and he could only
just make out the shapes of the table, stools, pots, the fireplace. Monk.

"Do not move," Monk
said. "I'm armed." Armed but foolish. He'd not raised a hue and cry
to rouse the rest of the household. That was a mistake.

Orlando drew his knife out of the
sheath strapped to his forearm and approached Monk carefully, slowly. Metal
flashed in the other man's hand. He too held a knife. Another mistake. He
should have brought his sword.

Why hadn't he? If Orlando had
awoken to sounds of an intruder, the first thing he would have done was grab
his sword, if he had one.

Perhaps Monk hadn't been asleep
when he heard Orlando. Perhaps he'd been roaming around the house too with the
less wieldy knife for protection. It explained why it seemed like he'd been
waiting for Orlando in the service area when he ought to be sound asleep in a
bedchamber upstairs.

Well, well, why was the
mysterious Mr. Monk sneaking about his employer's house?

"Who are you?" Monk
growled.

Orlando said nothing. Speaking
would give his identity away. It was so dark in the windowless kitchen that
even his blond hair would not be visible.

"I said—"

Orlando hunched over and charged.
He hit Monk side-on, using his body to force the other man out of the way. Monk
grunted and slammed against the wall near the door. Orlando ran out of the
kitchen, past the larders and other service rooms toward the narrow passage
leading to a different exit.

But he didn't see the object in
his path. He tripped over it and skidded across the flagstone floor. Bloody
hell! What fool had left a crate or whatever the hell it was in the way?

He got to his feet, keeping his
pack close, but was shoved back down again by the full force of Monk's body. He
managed to stand again only to receive a punch to the stomach.

Orlando couldn't breathe and pain
rippled through his middle. The hit was a solid one. Monk knew what he was
doing. Orlando swung back and his fist crunched against Monk's face. Monk
grunted then lunged.

Orlando didn't see the knife
until too late.

He leapt to the side but the blade
sliced through his sleeves and slashed his arm. It stung like the devil, but he
made no sound.

Enough. Time to end it.

Orlando ran off again, through
another door, and found himself in a small room whose function he couldn't
determine without light. Perfect.

Monk was right behind him. But
instead of running, Orlando flattened himself against the wall near the door.
Monk tripped over Orlando's boot. He went sprawling across the floor and
crashed into what sounded like pails.

Before he could get up, Orlando
stepped on his hand. Grunting in pain, Monk let go of the knife. Orlando
snatched it up then hauled Monk to his feet, and hit him in the stomach. Hard.
He didn't pull back.

Monk doubled over, gasping for
air. He fell to his knees and that's when Orlando left. He didn't look back. Didn't
need to. No footsteps followed, and he knew Monk wouldn't be able to breathe
properly for some time.

Now all he had to do was sneak
back into Stoneleigh without getting caught.

***

"You're awake," Orlando
said, closing the parlor door behind him.

Susanna sat up on the mattress
and gave him what she hoped was a withering glare, but was probably a complete
failure. She was too relieved to see him to be angry. Yet her relief didn't disperse
the doubts surrounding his disappearance.

"Where have you been?"
she asked.

He dumped his pack on the floor
and fell to his knees near her. "You waited up for me?"

He leaned in to kiss her. She
swayed back and pressed a hand to his chest. His heart beat furiously beneath
her palm and now that she looked closely, she could see beads of sweat across
his temple. The blazing light from the candelabra on the parlor's mantelpiece also
picked out a rent in his cloak sleeve.

"Where. Have. You.
Been?"

God, she sounded like a shrew. He
was not hers to command in this manner. He was a free man who could do what he
wanted and go where he desired. He wasn't her husband or betrothed, and not
really a servant. If he wanted to walk into the village in the middle of a
freezing November night to have a tumble with one of the village women, then so
be it. It wasn’t her business and she had no right to be upset.

Yet she was. Upset and deeply,
deeply wounded. She wanted to be the only one.

She drew her housecoat around her
and stood. Orlando rose with her and clutched her arms. His gaze locked with
hers and he frowned.

"I apologize," he said.
"I was abrupt with you this afternoon and I shouldn't have been." He
blew out a breath, shook his head. "I was worried about you and that
produced in me..." More head shaking and he left the sentence unfinished.

He thought she was still upset
about that? "Orlando." She wrapped her fingers around his upper arms
but he jerked away. The hiss of air being sucked between his teeth sent a
shiver through her.  "You're hurt!" Now that she looked closely, the tear
in his sleeve was edged with blood. "Take off your cloak and doublet."

He did, gingerly, to reveal a
bloodied shirt beneath. "Looks like he did more damage than I
thought."

"Who?" she asked,
unlacing his shirt.

"Monk."

She paused. "Where did you
come across him?"

"Sutton Hall." He
shrugged. "Where did you think I went?"

She gave him a gentle shove in
the chest. "I didn't think anything!" she lied. "All I knew was
you weren't here."
Where you should be.
"And now you're
wounded and there's blood everywhere! Foolish man. Why did you have to go up to
the Hall anyway? What did you think you would achieve on your own in the dark?
Foolish man!"

"You already said
that." He kissed the top of her head then tilted her chin up so that she had
to look at him. She tried not to cry. Tried very hard. But a tear and a sniff
escaped before she could stop them. He swept the tear away with the pad of his
thumb. "Ah, Susanna, it's all right. I know how to take care of
myself."

She tugged on his torn sleeve.
"I can see how good you are at taking care of yourself. Let me inspect the
damage."

"As you command, fair
lady."

"This is not a jest,
Orlando. If Monk's aim had been better, this could have been much worse. Or
what if he'd caught you? Jeffrey would see to it that you were arrested."
A cold lump of dread filled her stomach. The punishment for theft was hanging.
"Monk didn't see you, did he? Dear God, if he did...you have to go! Go
now!"

He caught her hands as she frantically
tried to push him away. His long, strong fingers held her fast. "Susanna,
do not fret. He didn't see me. No one did."

She bit her wobbling lip. After a
moment, when the tears no longer clogged her throat, she said, "Are you
sure? Because you can leave tonight and be far away by dawn. I can give you
food and money for a few days journey until you reach your sister in Salisbury."

He blinked rapidly. "You
care for my safety that much?"

"Of course!" The
vehemence of her response caught her by surprise. "I...that is, we are
linked now, in a way. I do not take lovers lightly." Indeed, she'd never
had a man outside the marriage bed. "There's a bond between us, Orlando,
whether we like it or not. What it means...I cannot say."

He looked down, his eyelids
lowered. He dropped his hands to his sides and scrunched them into fists.

She forged on. "All I do
know is, seeing you hurt wounds me too. Knowing you're hurt because of me makes
me feel ill."

His head jerked up. "Because
of you? What do you mean?"

"You went to Sutton Hall to
search Jeffrey's study for letters after I told you what I saw there this
afternoon. It's no great leap to suggest you went to discover more."

"But that is not
your
fault, Susanna."

"Orlando, my problems are
not yours. You seem to have appointed yourself my champion and although I'm
flattered, I want you to stop. It's become too dangerous. You are a
gardener."

"So you've reminded me.
Often."

"Don't pout."

"I'm not pouting."

"And you
are
a
gardener. If it bothers you to be called that, perhaps you chose the wrong
profession."

"It seemed like the right
choice at the time," he said through his clenched jaw.

She sighed. Men and their foolish
pride. "Remove your shirt and let me tend your wound."

"Aren't you interested in
what I discovered in Lynden's study?"

"I'm more interested in
checking your injuries first."

He picked up his pack, opened it,
and tipped the contents onto the mattress. Pieces of parchment fluttered down
and settled among the three knives, a small club, flask, and sling that also
fell out of the pack.