What the Marquess Sees (13 page)

She took a sniff.

And immediately dropped the foul thing.

Ack. Horse dung. Erg, figures.

She wiped her hands on her dress, pulled back her sleeves, and picked up the scuttle. She poured what she thought to be a reasonable amount of dried manure into the coal grate, then searched for a tinderbox. An abused and beaten circular tin container lay on the mantle. That must be it.

She sat down before the hearth and took everything out except the tinder and began the process of striking steel to flint over the shredded kindling.

Or should it be flint to steel?

Both felt awkward in her unpracticed hands. She’d always gone out of her way to avoid learning how to light a simple match.

Ten minutes later, Beatryce had a newfound respect for the servants.

Actually, for anyone who could light a fire.

Twenty minutes later and she was ready to scream in frustration.

The tinder would not win, dammit. She would build a fire if it were the last thing she ever did.

Twenty-five minutes later, she gave her hands a break while she paced the cold room, mumbling to herself and cursing the laughing tinderbox. She was going to have to ask Dansbury to up his staff’s wages after this, for surely he couldn’t be paying them enough to perform a task such as this.

Eventually, she dropped to her knees before the hearth once again.

Another five minutes more and the tinder finally caught.

Yes! Such sweet success.

She lit her match and managed to transfer flame to the dung in the hearth.

Right, nearly there.

She turned to snuff out the tinder and put everything away again, but when she stood to place the box on the mantle, she noticed…that the fire had gone out.

Argh.

Bea sucked in a deep breath and started the process all over again. She was far too stubborn to lose to horseshit.

After another ten minutes and much coaxing and blowing and not turning her back for a second, a respectable fire burned in the grate. At last!

She held her hands out to warm them as the flames worked to erase the chill on the air. She was still there, bent toward the hearth, when Dansbury returned a few minutes later.

She jumped and spun around and caught him standing in the doorway, staring where her ass had been. The look in his eyes made it clear the direction his thoughts had gone. But only for a moment.

His mouth turned down in a glower as he marched into the room. Clearly, they weren’t going to address the large white elephant in the room—the fact that they’d almost had sex.

“You’ve started a fire, I see. I’m surprised.”

She nearly rolled her eyes. “Some of us women are more useful than you men give us credit for.” She decided not to tell him what an arduous task it had been.

He barked out a cynical laugh as he joined her at the hearth. “I doubt I’ll ever underestimate you again.”

She wasn’t sure whether or not to take that as a compliment. She decided to ignore it. He seemed to be finished anyway. He fed his missive to the fire and turned contemplative as he stared off into the flickering flames.

“Wait! What did it say?”

He disregarded her; his focus lost in the blaze. His posture screamed inward reflection; his mind buried deep. She sat down before the hearth, tucked her knees beneath her dress, and crossed her arms. She would wait him out. He’d speak when he was ready. She needed to know what that missive said and pushing him when he wasn’t ready was the surest way to keep him from telling her what she wanted to know.

After a moment, he blinked as he came back to the present. “The men following us seem to know our every move. Though I don’t want to admit it, I’m beginning to suspect we have a traitor in our midst.”

He looked weary, grave, and aged beyond his years by that thought. He was only about thirty if she had to guess, and from what she knew of him, he had lived a life of ease despite the fact that his parents and brother were killed some years ago.

Certainly, his life had to have been better than hers. Again, the thought that he had hidden secrets just begged her to ask him of it. But he wasn’t ready…they weren’t ready…to divulge such confidences.

Her life had been filled with lies, hatred, and abuse. From her own father—a man she was supposed to be able to trust. She swallowed the lump in her throat and it made her angry. After all these years, the thought of the earl’s abuse still managed to upset her. He was supposed to love her, instead he abused her. And she hated that she still wished she could have won his regard. It was mad and wrong. Insane, like him. Would she ever stop seeking his approval?

Father made her bitter and unable to trust. Anyone. Save herself. Dansbury, on the other hand, seemed to trust everyone. Well, except her. And she was surprised when she thought about it. He was a spy for the Crown. He should be used to betrayal and corruption. It didn’t make sense.

She didn’t think it through before she queried him on it. “How can you be in your line of work and still trust anyone?”

He turned on her in a flash. “How can you live in a world where you don’t?”

His flash of anger caught her off guard.

He continued on. “There are beautiful things and there are ugly things, Lady Beatryce. Everywhere. You will always find whichever you seek.”

She thought on that for a moment. Perhaps it was true. She was a poor judge for she only ever experienced the ugly side of life. Or so it seemed. And then she thought on it further, as she regarded him in the flickering light of the fire.

Here is something beautiful. Right before my eyes. I can see that much even though he is only ever hostile to me…well, mostly hostile.

The thought gave her pause. Was it true? Did she only see the viciousness in life because she chose to? That was difficult to accept.

Father abused her. Abused. Her. Beat her to the point where she had to take to her bed. For days. Her own father!

Why me? Why not someone else? Would anyone blame me for having a cynical view of the world with a father like that?

No. She shut down the memories; she’d had years of practice at it. “So what do you see when you look at me then?”

Where had that come from?

And apparently, she wasn’t finished. She didn’t give him a chance to respond to her first query. “How come you are kind to everyone but me?”

“Because I’m too afraid of finding out I like you after all.”

He didn’t look at her as he admitted it.
Coward
.

But what could she say to that?

Nothing
.

She stood and turned to tidy the bed, an action born of nerves stretched tight. She was just plumping the last pillow when he broke the strained silence. “We should do something.”

“I am.” She liked to use sarcasm when she was angry.

He chuckled. “Not that. I mean, about this case. I don’t want to sit around and wait for someone to tell us to come out of hiding. I want to do something. Take action. You seem as if you are capable.”

Beatryce beamed inside but hid it well. If she wanted anyone to notice anything about her, anything at all, it was her capabilities. Her father’s old taunts threatened to ruin the moment. They told her Dansbury lied to gain her compliance. She thrust those unproductive thoughts aside.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. You know, you’re going to have to trust me. If you don’t, you die.”

She analyzed his words, turning them over in her mind. “I noticed you didn’t say ‘we’ die.”

“Of course not, I trust myself.”

“I couldn’t even trust my own father. How am I supposed to trust you?”

“That is up to you, Lady Beatryce. I cannot make it happen. But you know what I think? I think you trust me already and it scares you. I think it is why you chose me to protect you. Your request for my protection implies a certain measure of trust, does it not?”

It made sense, but she would never own up to it. No. She could only believe in herself. “Just tell me what you want to do.”

“For now, we proceed to our next stop as planned.”

“That’s all?”

“For now…”

* * * *

Nearby, Outside an Abandoned Shack…

That Same Night…

The cloaked man pulled out his gun and shot the messenger. A small flock of birds took flight at the sound. “I do not accept failure, nor excuses for it.”

He looked up from the victim, his eyes shadowed by his hood, and glared at his remaining men. He waved his still smoking gun in the air as he spoke. “Anyone else care to explain how four of you, now two, managed to let a lone woman and one man escape? We had every advantage. My dog could have managed this simple task better.”

The men standing before him shifted their feet and all but wet their trousers, but no one volunteered a response. They had seen what happened to the last guy after all. Perhaps they weren’t entirely foolish.

Ha
. The both of them were utter idiots. Not an ounce of sense to be shared between the two.

Mist drifted in and out of the woods surrounding them, snaking around the trees and swirling around the men’s legs. Silence blanketed the scene save for a few brave crickets. As if the woodland creatures held their breath, hoping not to draw his notice.

He nearly growled his frustration at his men’s incompetence. Now, he would be forced to explain matters to Himself. He wasn’t afraid of that. He just hated that he had to cozy up to the man for he only allowed the man to think he was in charge. All the groveling and posturing cut into the time he could be spent dreaming about and plotting his revenge…and training for the moment he would seize it. Alas, he needed the man’s power and money to see the job through. And that fact never failed to make him bitter.

He would do it though. Beg and plead and serve…do whatever was required to make this happen. At least until Himself outlived his own usefulness.

The cloaked man sighed. “Very well. It seems I’ll have to take care of this myself. In the meantime, I have another task for the pair of you. This one even you two should be able to handle. I need you to fetch something for me.”

It was only a matter of time before he would revel in his victory. He was confident of that; it was the only acceptable outcome.

“Three things cannot long stay hidden: the sun, the moon and the truth.”

―Buddha

The next morning, Dansbury and Beatryce headed downstairs with the rising sun. As usual. They hadn’t spoken a word, and he was glad of it. He’d slept on the floor after yesterday…played the gentleman…though it chafed. Why should he be the one to suffer while she slept on…or snored on as it were?

He was exhausted now, and surly, for he hadn't slept a wink. Discomfort combined with too many tortured thoughts and even more torturous sights clattered about in his mind throughout the night. And all of it centered on her; when he should be thinking about their traitor. Or at the very least, sleeping so he could be clear-headed and well-rested. It was another gripe to lay at her feet.

They reached the ground floor without exchanging more than a glance. He turned the corner and was surprised to see MacLeod in the dining area. And the man wasn’t alone, but it wasn’t Kelly who graced his table as might be expected. It was the American, Mrs. Chase. She didn’t appear to be happy about that fact either. She wasn’t at all acting like the ebullient woman from yesterday. The one who had every man in the room, and some women, too, hanging on her every word. Well, everyone except MacLeod.

MacLeod looked like he always did. Kilted and angry.

Oh, he couldn’t wait to hear this
. Dansbury nearly rubbed his hands with glee as he suddenly rediscovered his normal amiable manner, albeit this time, his manner held a touch of mischievousness. His friends always managed to bring him back to himself.

Dansbury slapped on an extra wide grin for good measure. “Good morning, my friend.”

“Churchmouse,” came the brusque reply. As usual, no smile came from that quarter.

“I see you have company. Why?” He didn’t beat around the bush.

“Doona ask…”

Dansbury grinned wider. “But…”

“Doona. Ask.”

He tried to keep a straight face. “You nev…”

“I said Doona. Fooking. Ask.”

“Right…I won’t ask.” He held up a finger. “But you know…”

MacLeod took a swing and Dansbury only just managed to duck out of the way of the man’s ham-sized fist.

Hmm. A might touchy today, aren’t we?

He laughed at his friend. It’s how they usually related to one another. He laughed, MacLeod scowled. Never mind that his own laugh was a touch strained today, an unusual occurrence to be sure.

He let go his teasing and turned to introduce Mrs. Chase to Lady Beatryce. “Mrs. Chase? This is my wife, Mrs. Betty Churchmouse.”

“How do you do, Mrs. Churchmouse?” came the downcast reply.

“MacLeod, may I present my wife, Mrs. Churchmouse? Darling, this is my friend, Lord Alaistair MacLeod.”

Mrs. Chase jerked her head up, her eyes wide with curiosity, and Dansbury winced as he realized his mistake. Another to fuel Mrs. Chase’s curiosity. Based on their conversation at the last inn, Mrs. Chase would surely find it odd that his wife and his friend were not acquainted. And clearly, she’d noticed the blunder. Or suspected that something was off. But what could he say now? Nothing, really. In the end, he didn’t offer an excuse, and as expected, she was too polite to query him on it.

Predictably, MacLeod snarled over Dansbury’s use of “Lord”. He was quite touchy on the subject of his own nobility.

In all, the tension around the table was so thick as to be almost visible.

Beatryce took charge to diffuse the situation.

Dansbury couldn’t help but admire her as she spoke to MacLeod and Mrs. Chase. She stepped into the role of Mrs. Churchmouse as if she was born to it. Damn, but she was a surprise. At least, she put on a good show. She was lively and quick and quite swiftly put Mrs. Chase at ease. Not so MacLeod, but then Dansbury didn’t think anyone was that capable. That man was born angry. But he was faithful.