Realm 03 - A Touch of Cashemere (35 page)

“What does the man look like?” Kerrington demanded.

“Dark skinned...a foreigner.”

Kerrington bit back the curse. “Did this foreigner give a name?”

“No, M’ Lord. He never say, and I never ast.”

“What did the note say?”

March appeared frightened again. “I cannot read, M’ Lord, but me friend Joby reads a bit. Joby say the note told Averette to meet the foreigner at midnight in the county’s stables.”

Kerrington released his hold on the groom. “If I see you again before I leave Scotland, you will rue the day.”

The groom nodded again, straightened his shirt, and then made a speedy retreat.

“Midnight,” Kerrington grumbled.

*

Averette climbed slowly into the curricle, considering what he had just done. “That should put Charters away for life,” he spoke his thoughts aloud. “Thinking that she is Cashémere, Charters will take liberties with Satiné. It will be a suitable revenge on Morton to have his precious Satiné ruined. Her option narrowed to marrying a Scottish bumpkin. Now, who has the upper hand, Morton?” With a smirk and a devilish laugh, Averette set his team in motion.

Charters silently opened the room’s door. He had used a concealed exit to the wine cellar to come out behind several large boulders some one hundred yards east of his home. Such tunnels had come with the house when his father had purchased the land some fifty years past. As a child, Lachlan had spent endless hours playing castle and knights in the darkened passages. Some thought the house, which had been built upon the ruins of a Scottish keep, held ghosts and even a curse, but practical Lachlan had never believed any such tales. Yet, as he had emerged from the hidden entrance, a shiver of foreboding had shot down his spine. “Maybe I should let the gel go free,” he told himself as he set a course toward the cottage, but Lachlan had realized it was too late for that. He would have to execute the plan that Averette had suggested.

He had taken the last of the sponges with him. Before he had departed for England, Lachlan had sent to his maternal grandmother, her clan’s healer, for something to deaden pain. The woman regularly dealt in drugs not readily found in the bags of country physicians. His grandmother had sent him a mixture of opium, hemlock, and mandragora. Lachlan had seen the woman use sponges soaked in the mixture to ease grown men into a peaceful sleep while she reset their broken bones or removed bullets. It was what he had used on Cashémere to subdue the girl so that he might remove her from her English home. He had given her laudanum mixed in water to keep her unconscious through most of the trip. On the road, he could not trust her not to attempt an escape, but now that she had returned to Scotland, Lachlan had hoped that their joining would not be repugnant to the girl.

“It be good to see you up,” he said softly as he closed the door behind him and set the lock. The girl did not turn. She had moved the lone chair in the room to sit before the window, and she appeared entranced by her narrow view of the world. Lachlan placed the small basket that he had carried on the table. “I brought ye some more food.” Still, she did not respond, and he had wondered what bothered her. “I be sorry, Gel, for being so rough with ye, but I had no way of convincing ye to come back to me.” He chuckled lightly. “I not be treating you as such once ye be me wife. Ye know I care deeply for ye. I need me a wife to tend the children, but I want a gel with whom I kin show affection.”

Without looking at him, she said, “So you will lock me away until we can marry? How long might that be, Sir? Three weeks for the calling of the banns? Oh, I forget. I am in Scotland now. Tell me, Sir, does your village have the same rules of marriage as Gretna Green? Do we need more than an anvil?” Her voice sounded detached. It rang with coldness and pure disdain.

“I would not have ye speak so, Gel.” Lachlan moved up behind her. He rested his large hands on her shoulders and felt the shudder of revulsion go through her. “We once shared the same dreams.”

“We shared no such dreams, Sir.” Satiné stormed from him. “You stole me from my family. You have left my reputation in shreds.” She turned vehemently on him. “Who do you think I am, Sir?”

Lachlan looked confused. “Ye be my Cashémere.”

The girl cackled. “Just as I suspected. It is so ironic.” She sat weakly on the bed’s edge. “My sister and I thought ourselves so smart. We tricked Uncle Charles and Aunt Charlotte and our cousin and my uncle’s staff. We even convinced Lord Lexford that I was my sister, and look at my fate for my falsehood.” Her voice grew hysterical.

Lachlan moved forward to confront her. “What mean yer words?” he demanded.

The girl was on her feet to counter his demands. “I am not Cashémere. If you once thought my sister your betrothed, should you not know enough of her nature to know my twin when you see her? Tell me that you recognize the difference when you look at me.” She thrust her chin upward to give him a good look at her countenance.

Lachlan listened, but his mind refused to acknowledge that he had made a mistake. “It cannot be,” his voice thundered in the small room. “It be common knowledge that the fancy English viscount courted me Cashémere behind me back. Try to cuckolded me, he did. I seen the county taking liberties. Ye be lucky, Gel, that I be willing to forgive yer wanton ways.”

His prisoner laughed again. “My sister no longer affects a mere viscount. Cashémere has set her sights on an earl, the very one who escorted her to Derbyshire two months ago. You have committed a crime for nothing. Your precious Cashémere will become a countess. What makes you believe that she might wish to raise another man’s children or to accept a glorified farmer over a peer?”

“Ye offer a lie!” Charters’ voice boomed off the walls. “Lord Averette called at me house today. He says that Viscount Worthing and his friends searched for Cashémere. Your Uncle Samuel would not twist the truth.”

The woman shook her head as if to clear it. “That makes no sense. If Lord Worthing is involved, then my Uncle Charles and the household know that it is I, not Cashémere, who is missing. Why would Lord Worthing say otherwise?”

“Ye just tryin’ to confuse me,” Lachlan accused. “But I not be letting ye return to Manchester. Ye will be me wife today.”

“Then you will drag me kicking and screaming to speak vows before a smithy, after all?” she bitterly accused.

Lachlan shook off her words. “I had hoped that ye would see that I be offering ye an honest proposal, and that ye would give yerself freely to me.” He spoke seriously, telling the girl that he meant his words.

She snarled. “Give myself freely? Even Cashémere would do nothing of the sort, so you cannot expect me to do so; but if you will allow me to go free, I will intervene with Lord Worthing and my Uncle Charles,” she bargained.

In silence, Lachlan watched her for a few moments, and then he walked mechanically toward the basket he had left on the table. With his back to Satiné, he removed the dry sponge, opened the water flask and splashed some on the small square. “I be afraid that be not possible,” he said evenly. “ As you say, no one be believing a stupid oaf of a farmer.” Advancing slowly, he turned toward her. ”Especially against an English viscount and his powerful friends.”

Satiné recognized the panic rising in her chest as she skittered away from him. “What do you plan to do?” Her mouth went dry.

“Yer Uncle Samuel say I need to mark ye as me own.” He backed her against the bed. “I mean to take me husbandly rights before the ceremony.” She went completely white with fear.

“Please do not do this,” she begged in a raspy voice. “You will go to jail,” she reasoned.

“The English viscount will excuse me crimes when I accept ye and offer ye the protection of me name,” he countered. “It be the only way. Even Lord Averette say so. It be his idea.”

Satiné gulped for air. “Uncle Samuel suggested...that...” She could not say the words.

“Will ye accept me freely?” Lachlan asked quietly. “I will be gentle.”

She closed her eyes, as if imagining the possibility of what he suggested. Unaware that she did so, she gave a slight shake of her head. Before she formed the words of denial, Charters grabbed her and shoved her on the bed, following her down with his large body. Satiné squirmed and clawed, but it was of little use. Charters held her tightly in place and easily caught her two hands in his one.

“Stop, Cashémere,” he ordered as he wrestled her, purposely pressing her body into the mattress’s softness. “I do not mean to harm ye, Gel,” he growled.

“Just take me against my will!” Satiné huffed as she continued to struggle.

“It be not what I want,” he insisted.

Suddenly she ceased her undulations, and Lachlan followed suit. Very quietly, she acknowledged, “This is rape, Sir.” When he made no move to release her, she spit in his face. “That is to your kindness.”

Lachlan released her hands to wipe her mucus from his face. Pure contempt spread through him. He had been lying upon her chest to chest, but now he purposely rose up on his elbows. His slow movements stilled her struggle, and the girl froze: She faced his granite countenance. “Ye should not have done it, Gel,” he warned. “It be wrong to show yer husband such dishonor, Cashémere.”

“You are not my husband,” Satiné declared.

“Not yet,” he growled. “This will make ye more amiable.” Swiftly, he covered her mouth and nose with the wet sponge. She clawed at his hand, but he was too strong, and soon she ceased her efforts. Her hands fell loosely to her sides, and Lachlan released his hold. “Now, let me see what ye bring to me bed.” He dutifully unbuttoned the small pearl fastenings down her gown’s front. Opening the bodice wide, he reached for the laces of her chemise.

*

Marcus and Cashémere rode into the curved drive of Charters’ small manor house. Marcus quickly slid from the saddle to lift Cashé to the ground. “Let me do the talking,” he warned as he quickly escorted Cashé up the steps to raise the knocker on the main door.

Within seconds, the door swung wide. “Yes, Sir.”

“The Earl of Berwick and Miss Aldridge for Mr. Charters.” Marcus noted the shocked look of the butler when he saw Cashé’s outfit.

“Let me inquire if the master be at home, Sir.”

Marcus caught the man’s shirtfront. “No inquires,” he growled. “Tell me where Charters can be found.”

The servant swallowed visibly. “I have not seen Mr. Charters for over an hour.”

A footman stepped into the hallway, taking a menacing step in Marcus’s direction, but Cashé stepped in his way. “I do not mean to hurt ye, Miss Cashémere,” the footman warned–a bit amused with her clothing choice.

Suddenly a large form filled the open doorway. “Then I suspect that you should not consider interfering.”

Marcus shot a quick glance toward the figure. “Nice to see you, Lucifer.”

Lexford’s man eased into the opening. “I thought that you might require my assistance, Lord Yardley.” He pointed a gun at the footman, and Cashé moved out of the way.

Marcus shook the servant before tightening his hold. “Is Charters at home?” he demanded.

The footman answered instead. “Mr. Charters ordered the cook to make him a food basket, and then he disappeared into the tunnels.”

“What tunnels?” Marcus asked while concentrating on the servant’s lack of bravado.

Cashé responded. “There are several tunnels from when this land held a Scottish keep.”

“Has Charters a female house guest?” Marcus shot a glance at the footman who had cautiously raised his hands.

“No one. I swear.”

Cashé lightly touched Marcus’s shoulder. “She must be here or at Uncle Samuel’s,” she whispered.

“The gentleman arrived home on foot yesterday afternoon,” Lucifer disclosed. “Only Lord Averette has called today.”

Marcus nodded his understanding. “Good work, Mr. Hill.” Marcus maintained his hold while redirecting his remarks to Cashé. “Help me figure out, Sweetheart, where Charters might have gone. He is on foot and has food, probably for your sister. It cannot be far. Where might Charters be holding Satiné?”

Cashé bit her bottom lip, deep in concentration. “The cottage,” she said suddenly.

“What cottage?” Marcus loosened his hold on the servant.

“The one his parents lived in while his father rebuilt this house,” she said as she turned toward the door. “It cannot be more than a quarter mile.” She was leading the way around the side of house and toward the woodlands. Marcus gave each of the servants a silent warning not to follow, and then he chased Cashé along the pathway. Without giving the man orders, he knew that Hill would deal with Charters household staff.

Cashé was running, her men’s clothing allowing her the freedom of a longer stride. Marcus followed closely behind her, neither of them slowing down until the cottage came into view. Stopping suddenly, they both bent over, hands on their knees and panting. “What now?” Cashé sucked in a deep breath and straightened.

“Let us move slowly,” Marcus suggested. “See what is in the back. Is there more than one way in?” he asked as he caught Cashé’s hand and led her on a sweeping arc of the cottage.

“I do not think so,” she shared. “There is really only two rooms. A large room with a kitchen and fireplace and a small bedroom. It was temporary quarters for Charters and his wife.”

Coming to the lean to, Marcus motioned to where the rented coach sat. “Charters has been here,” he whispered close to Cashé’s ear. “Stay here,” he ordered. “Permit me to see what I can find out before we make our entrance.” Marcus kissed her forehead and squeezed her hand before he left her hiding behind a hedgerow.

Slowly, carefully choosing where he stepped, Marcus approached the cottage. There were no windows along the backside of the structure so he did not worry of someone seeing him until he reached the back corner and eased himself about the turn. His gun hand led the way as he squatted below the windowsill. Straightening cautiously, avoiding any tell tale noise, Marcus peered into the filmy window. When his eyes adjusted to the scene, his heart stopped cold. “Damn!” he growled before racing for the front of the small house.