Allison Lane (28 page)

He cringed.  Elizabeth was not the sort who indulged in tears, but she’d spilled more than a few this time.

Her sitting room was also empty, but the writing desk reminded him that she had also been living a lie.  Perhaps that would make it easier to excuse his own.

“Have you seen Lady Elizabeth?” he asked Wendell when he returned to the hall.

“She is out, my lord.”  A good butler would have overheard the contretemps in the drawing room, so the address was no surprise.

“Is someone ill?”  The storm still raged, rattling the windows.

“I have heard of nothing, and she carried no remedies,” he admitted, glancing at the rain.

“How long since she left?”

“A quarter hour, perhaps.”  He paused, waging a mental war, then drew himself straighter, as if distancing himself from his words.  “She quarreled with her father.  He ordered her to leave his house and never return.”

“My God!”

The handprint.  No wonder she had been in tears.  And an argument with Fosdale explained much of what she had shouted at him.

He raced upstairs to don his warmest cloak.  Would she have taken a horse?  But a moment’s reflection dismissed the notion.  She would have taken nothing that did not belong to her – and nothing that did, he realized.  Her books remained in the library.  Her room was unchanged.  Her writing things sat on her desk.

She had fled, without thought and without plan.  And probably without resources.

The wind knocked him back a step as he emerged from the Manor.  He had to bend nearly double to make any headway against it.  Where would she have gone?

“Have you seen Lady Elizabeth?” he shouted at two men who were covering a broken window in one of the outbuildings.

“That way.”  One of them pointed at the mountain rising just beyond the lake.

By the time he reached the shore, the wind was easing, though rain fell in torrents, softening even stony ground.  Tracks showed that someone had passed very recently.  It had to be Elizabeth.  Who else would be out in this weather?

He followed, cursing steadily as the tracks left the lake to climb the mountain.  Fool woman!  Where did she think she was going?  Was she thinking at all?

The rain stopped an hour later, though clouds still glowered overhead, seeming closer now.  He scanned the hillside at frequent intervals.  He had yet to catch a glimpse of her, but he had no doubt she was there.  Her footprints beckoned him onward.

More time passed.  He leaned against an outcropping to catch his breath after a particularly steep climb.  She must be growing tired.  More than once, she had slipped on this last stretch.  Was he closing the gap between them?

“Elizabeth!” he shouted.  “You’ll catch your death out here.”

No response.

* * * *

Elizabeth trudged up the mountain that separated Ravenswood from Uncle Jason’s estate.  The direct route was steeper than the paths she usually followed, but the distance was shorter.  And she had been this way before.

But after a slip nearly tumbled her over a cliff, she had to admit that she had been stupid to try it today.  Or to try it at all.  She was no longer ten years old, and it was not a warm summer afternoon.

She should have stayed at Ravenswood until she had worked out her plans.  If she had moved into a room in the old wing, Fosdale would not have known she remained.  No servants went there, for it had been closed off for years.  Letty could have brought her enough food to keep her for several days.  She could have collected her possessions while everyone slept, then left for good.

But she had fled in a blind panic after that last argument with Symington.  He was even more determined than Fosdale.  A core of steel lay beneath his amiable facade, surfacing as a stubbornness no one could defeat.  She had sensed that ruthlessness, which was one reason she had vacillated so long.

“Elizabeth!”  His voice echoed from the rocks. 

Dear Lord, he was following her.  She dove behind a boulder, then slowly peeked around its edge.

There.  He stood at the top of the cliff, scanning the slopes above.  She gritted her teeth.  How had he found her so quickly?  He didn’t even look winded.

Somehow she had to lose him.

She followed a rivulet up a fold in the hill, accepting the muddy footing because the hill would block his view.  Within moments she slipped, then stared at the betraying mark.  Damn, but she was stupid.  He did not need to see her.  He didn’t even need to focus on that mental connection they seemed to share.  He was following her footprints.

Scrambling up the far side, she changed course along the hill’s flank.  A plan was forming.  Only a quarter mile farther was a cave.  Merely entering it would protect her from being caught, for he could not follow her inside.  And he was welcome to sit at the entrance until doomsday, for there was a second opening half a mile away.  The cave floor was reasonably smooth, without cracks or crevices.  A few smaller tunnels branched from the main one, but she recalled most of the layout.

She would have to be careful, though.  It had been years since she had explored here, and this time she had no light.

The ground grew stonier.  By the time she reached the cavern, she had decided to wait and see if he found her before braving the darkness inside.  Thick fog had dropped, as it so often did on the fells.  If he missed the cave, she could wait for morning, then resume her journey to Bornhill Park.

* * * *

Randolph doggedly followed Elizabeth’s footprints.  His fury was spent, replaced by fear that she would injure herself in this mad flight.  The higher they climbed, the more treacherous the footing became.  And fog was making it worse.

He had several friends who regularly visited the Lake District.  They had described being trapped on the fells when the fog rolled in, telling tales of the cold that could bring death from exposure and of the slippery, blind footing that threatened drops over unseen cliffs.

Elizabeth might have lived here all her life.  She might know this mountain like the back of her hand.  But fog changed everything, obliterating landmarks and making it impossible to guess which direction one faced. 

This was far too much like his own experience on Dartmoor two years ago, when he had nearly wandered into a bog after the fog came down.

He slowed, bending double so he could clearly see her footprints.  The ground was stonier here, which made it more difficult.  Shouting had been a mistake.  Now that she knew he was tracking her, she had swerved onto rock.  But he could still see smudges of mud here and there.

Ten minutes later, he stretched his back.  Even the mud was gone.  She had followed a slab of rock for nearly a hundred yards.  Was she still heading the same direction, or had she changed yet again?

He peered into the thickening fog.  He could not continue without a clear trail to follow.  It was suicidal to even consider it.

He shivered.

The fog was soaking through his cloak, chilling him to the bone.  He needed shelter. 

A shadow loomed uphill, too large for an outcropping.  Probably another cliff, but it might offer a cleft that would be warmer than standing in the open.  He suppressed the image of a rock falling from the face to crush him.  Risking possible injury was better than the certain death he faced here.

There was more than a cleft.  There was a cave.  He hesitated, but renewed rain cut through the fog, adding the risk of catching a putrid sore throat or inflammation of the lungs.

Drawing in a deep breath, he backed inside, keeping his eyes on the daylight and the falling rain.

It’s just like looking out the library window
, he reminded himself as rain fell six inches from his face.  But he could not force his feet even one step farther.

Breathe evenly.
  He relaxed his fists, hoping to ease the tightness in his chest.  Already, rapid breathing was making him lightheaded.  Or was it his pounding heart?

The soft scrape of a foot against rock echoed behind him.  Images of bears and Scottish wildcats disappeared when it was followed by a stifled gasp.

“Elizabeth?”

She cursed.

“I know you are angry with me, but can’t we at least discuss this?” he asked quietly.

“Never.”  Her footsteps receded into the mountain.  “The subject is closed, my lord.  You will not drag me off to fulfill some idiotic notion of honor.”

“Honor has nothing to do with it.”

“Do you expect me to believe anything you say?”

“I suppose not.  And I cannot really blame you.  But you do not know everything.  At least learn all the facts before you condemn me.”

“Good-bye, my lord.”  Her voice was firm – and farther away than ever.

He turned to face the cave and realized that she had no light.  Intrepid Elizabeth.  But even if she knew this cave well, her actions were foolish.

“Elizabeth, please don’t make me chase you down again,” he begged.

She actually laughed.  “You won’t follow me.  You’re afraid of the dark.  I’d rather die in here alone than face marriage to a deceiver.”

She was right, damn her.  He could not force his feet into this cave.  All he could do was hope that cold or hunger would eventually force her out. 

Or logic.  He couldn’t touch her, but his voice could. 

“How does my deceit differ from yours, Mary Selkirk?” he called after her.  “How many names do
you
go by, Anne?”

“That is entirely diff—”

Rock cracked, turning her words to a scream. 

“Elizabeth!” he shouted.  “Elizabeth!”

The sound of falling stone echoed, echoed, echoed… 

Terror closed his throat, choking him.  He tried to shout again, but no sound emerged.  Darkness blinded him even as the memory of pain stabbed through his legs.

A last pebble skittered down a wall to land on the tunnel floor.  Its plop reverberated quietly…

Silence.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Randolph blinked.  Dim light illuminated a rock wall.  He had no memory of moving, but he was curled on the floor, his arms wrapped around his head as tears rolled down his cheeks.

“Elizabeth?” he called again.  “Elizabeth!”

“M-my lord?”

Relief left him weak.  “Are you all right?”

“I-I think so.”

“What happened?”

“The ceiling came down.”

Falling stones again echoed along the passage.

“Watch out!”

“That was me, my lord.  I was shifting some stones that landed on my legs.”

Oh, God!  Pain stabbed his own leg.  “My name really is Randolph,” he said to distract himself.  This was far too like the collapse that had nearly killed him twenty-two years ago. 

“I thought it was George.”

He groaned.  “George Edward Randolph Catherwood, if you need the whole damned list.  Though it could be worse.  There are at least five other names they might have added.  Whitfield insists on George, but I prefer Randolph.”

“Why?”

“Every fourth boy at school was named George, and I’ve never enjoyed crowds.  Besides, I want no connection, however remote, to the Regent.  He and I disagree on nearly everything.”

She laughed.

“And my least favorite cousin is named Edward – he has been the bane of my existence for years.”

“I thought you had no near relatives.”

“Not on my father’s side.  He’s Mother’s nephew.  Both my mother and grandmother come from prolific families, not that it did any good.  Whitfields have rarely produced many children.”

“So you really were unconscious that night.”

“Of course.  How could you doubt it?”

“If you were alert enough to invent a new persona, I had to wonder about everything.”

“I don’t even remember that conversation,” he protested.

“When you first opened your eyes, I asked your name, and you muttered
Randolph
.  Don’t you ever think of yourself as Symington?”

“Not if I can help it.  The title has been more trouble than it’s worth.”

More stones cascaded into the tunnel.

“That was farther down the passage,” she called.

“Can you walk?”  He realized that he was several steps inside the cave.  Cold terror joined the remembered pain.

She cursed, again moving small rocks.  A series of grunts ended in sobs.

“What is going on?”  His voice wavered.

“I’m trapped.  I thought I could slide out from under this stone once I kicked the debris away from my legs, but I can’t.  Nor can I get any leverage with my hands.  You will have to fetch help.”

The light was rapidly fading outside the cave.  It would be dark soon.

“Is there a quicker way back to Ravenswood?” he asked, hating the cowardice that made the question necessary.

“No.  In fact, there is a cliff about a hundred yards downhill from here, so be careful.”

He sank to the floor and put his head in his hands.  More than two hours had elapsed since he’d set out to follow Elizabeth.  It would be impossible to follow the footprint trail back to the valley.  Between darkness and fog, he had no chance of making it intact.

A slither of small rocks echoed.  “Was that you?”

“No.  You had better get started.  Water is running down from the break in the ceiling and pooling on the floor.  The passage is level, so there is no danger of drowning, but all this rain must be eroding the hillside.  And it can only get worse.”

He could hear the tension in her voice.  She had to know that the next collapse might kill her.  He remembered that feeling all too well.

“Elizabeth, I am going to be as honest as I can,” he said, fighting to steady his voice.  “It will be dark in an hour, and the fog is growing thicker.  Even if I managed to find my way back to Ravenswood, no one could climb up here before tomorrow.  If the rock is that unstable, I doubt it will hold up that long.  Are you absolutely certain you cannot free yourself?”

Grunts and sobs, punctuated by more falling stone, answered him.

“I’m sorry, Randolph.  I can’t do it.”

“Are you on my side of the fall or beyond it?” he asked, fighting terror as he inched away from the light.

“I’ve no idea.  Why?”