What an Earl Wants (18 page)

Her stiff muscles didn’t regret staying behind, though she missed Sinclair’s cheerful company as he rode off down the drive without her. She settled into the deep leather chair in his study, account books open and strewn about the desk to compare notes with her books from London. Certain she wouldn’t be disturbed, she tossed her spectacles onto the desk, snuggled deep in the chair, and delved into the books.

Everything was perfect. Every penny paid out had been for a legitimate expense. Every merchant had delivered the goods for which he’d been paid. When Bentley brought tea, he confirmed the wages received by the staff matched those listed in the books.

Johnson’s sticky fingers had not reached this far. His thefts were limited to the London household, and Quincy was certain she’d already uncovered the extent of the missing funds there.

She had solved the puzzle, had fulfilled the task for which Sinclair had hired her. With a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, she realized Sinclair didn’t need her anymore.

But she still needed him.

She needed the wages from this job to save for her cottage in the country. More importantly, she needed to see Sinclair every day.

Grandmère had told her to seize every moment of joy that came her way. Spending time with Sinclair certainly fell into that category. She wouldn’t let go easily.

Perhaps she had missed something. Perhaps Johnson had simply hidden his efforts more carefully. She dug back into the books, double checking every entry, adding every column again.

Absorbed in trying to find something, anything, Quincy was oblivious to her surroundings. She barely stirred when thunder rumbled in the distance. The afternoon passed swiftly until Bentley opened the study door, his face ashen.

Quincy’s stomach knotted with apprehension when she saw his expression.

“Zoltan has returned to the stable, sir,” he said stiffly. “Alone.”

Quincy dropped the ledger. “Sinclair’s horse?” Her heart pounded.

The butler nodded. “The saddle is still firmly cinched on. Several of the grooms have already set out to search for his lordship. I thought you would like to know.”

“Thank you.” Her mind raced. “Has Clarence been shoed yet?”

“I believe so.”

She spared a glance out the window, and noticed for the first time rain pouring down. “Please have him saddled. I’ll join in the search.” She ran to her room to exchange her comfortable shoes for Papa’s boots, her whole body shaking as disturbing images crowded into her mind. She pushed those thoughts aside and grabbed her hat and coat from Bentley, who waited for her in the hall.

“Here, sir,” he said, handing her a length of oilcloth. “It’s not much, but ’tis all I could find, and will keep you drier than your coat alone.”

She flashed him a smile of gratitude, then ran out the door and climbed onto Clarence’s back.

The trail of hooves in the mud was easy to follow, too easy. No point in going where the grooms had already gone. She directed Clarence farther up the drive before moving into the pasture and across the undulating hills and valleys.

Ducking low against the gelding’s neck, she checked under each tree and stared along the edge of every stone wall, searching for Sinclair’s inert form. The wind picked up, blowing away the clouds. For a moment the rain stopped and she saw patches of blue sky. She glanced back the way she’d come, then swept the horizon. Nothing looked familiar.

“Bloody hell, I’m lost,” she muttered. She patted her horse’s neck. “Some rescuers we are, hey Clarence?” After debating possible actions, the only logical decision was to keep looking for the earl. Maybe she’d stumble on to the manor house as well.

The respite from the rain was brief. New clouds quickly moved in, varying shades of dark gray to almost black. Rain fell in a torrent, reducing her vision to less than fifty yards at best.

Clarence slogged through the mud, walking no faster than Quincy could have on her own. Even at his snail’s pace, she almost lost her seat when he abruptly stopped at the edge of a stream. Usually little more than a drainage ditch, water gushed past and over its banks, carrying tree limbs and other debris.

Something black bobbed near the edge, caught on a rock. Quincy jumped down and grabbed it before the current could snatch it again.

Sinclair’s hat. Inside the crown was fresh blood.

She gasped and dropped it, then immediately picked it up again. With a roaring in her ears that had nothing to do with the rushing water, she held her hand up to shield her eyes from the rain and peered along the edge of the ditch. Afraid she’d find Sinclair’s inert form, she searched in both directions, both sides. The water wasn’t deep or swift enough to have carried away a large adult male.

No body. Farther upstream the mud looked different. Clarence followed at her shoulder as she made her way to the spot that caught her eye.

Deep marks in the mud showed where Zoltan must have dug in. Rocks rimmed the edge of the stream, any number of which could do serious harm to a human skull. Sinclair was nowhere in sight. Tracks in the mud on the opposite bank gave her hope he had staggered away, and was not lying at the bottom of the stream.

“Well, Clarence,” she said, raising her voice to hear herself above the pounding of the rain and the fast-moving water, “if we back up to get a running start, do you think you can leap this mighty chasm?” Clarence snorted. “I’ll take that as a yes.” She remounted him and urged him back from the ditch. “We have to find him,” she said against his neck. She shivered, already chilled. “Soon.” She gripped the reins with her rain-soaked gloves, whispered a fervent prayer for her own safety as well as Sinclair’s, and nudged the horse.

Not only did she keep her seat, her teeth didn’t even rattle when Clarence touched down on the other side. “Good boy!” she shouted, patting him on the neck. “Now let’s find the earl.”

They plodded on, searching for any sign of a creature moving on two legs. Twice she thought she spotted grooms on horseback in the distance, though her eyes could have been playing tricks on her in the downpour. She found no more human footprints, but the grass grew in thick clumps, and the sheep had mucked up any prints that might have been in the bare spots.

“At this rate, they’ll have to send out a search party for
me,
” Quincy said with a sigh of disgust. The rain eased off to a drizzle and she stood in the stirrups to get a better look across the fields. Darkness was fast approaching, adding to the urgency of the task.

“Look, Clarence!” she said, sitting down and nudging him forward again. “That’s either a tall, thin sheep, or we’ve found him!” The gelding responded to the excitement in her voice and broke into a trot toward the dark shape at the far end of the pasture.

“Sinclair!” she called a few moments later, reining in Clarence beside the earl. She was so relieved to find him, she forgot about being cold and wet.

Sinclair kept moving, limping badly, eyes squinted nearly shut against the rain in his face.

“Sinclair!” she shouted again, reaching for his shoulder.

He glanced at her, then in one swift motion jumped back a step, turned to the side, and raised his fists.

She jerked back the hand she’d reached out to him and stared at him. Just how hard had he hit his head?

He blinked. “Oh. It’s you.” Several heartbeats later he dropped his fists.

“Sinclair? Do you know the way back to the house? I found you but I lost myself.”

“House?” His brows snapped together as he frowned in concentration. He turned in a slow circle, scanning the horizon, swaying so much Quincy reached out to steady him. “N-no house. Shepherd’s hut. That way.” He pointed the way he’d been walking, then reached up to swipe rain from his eyes.

It wasn’t rain trickling down from his hair into his right eye, but blood. Tamping down a fresh wave of panic, Quincy ignored the goose bumps that suddenly rose on her flesh. She fished a handkerchief from her waistcoat pocket and handed it to Sinclair, who only stared at it. “Wipe your forehead,” she ordered, hoping he didn’t hear the tremble in her voice.

“Oh. Y-yes. Yes, o’ course.” He dabbed the linen, now soggy from the rain, at his forehead. He stared at the blood on it when he drew it away.

“My lord!” she said briskly. “We need to find shelter. Are you sure you don’t know the way back to the house?”

“Sh-shepherd’s hut over there,” he repeated, raising his chin. The movement unbalanced him and he grabbed at Quincy’s leg. He wrapped one hand around her ankle, and reached up with the other.

Quincy gripped the pommel with her left and pulled him up with her right hand when he jumped. How her arm remained attached to her shoulder was a mystery, but he landed on Clarence’s rump. And almost slid off. He grabbed her left thigh and right hip before he righted himself.

“S-sorry,” he mumbled, swaying forward until his chin rested on her shoulder. He heaved a deep sigh and silently raised his arm, pointing in the direction he’d been headed.

Quincy struggled to stay upright under his weight, until she nudged Clarence forward and Sinclair leaned back again. Too far back. He grabbed at her hips, then wrapped his arms around her waist and locked his fingers.

She stared at his mud-streaked hands, so big and so close, held snug to her belly. Despite the drizzling rain, something uncoiled in her stomach, something warm and fluttery, and spread through her whole being.

It froze, however, when she felt a shiver wrack Sinclair’s body. She removed one glove to touch his hands. “You’re like ice!”

“Mmm.”

While Quincy chafed Sinclair’s hands with one of her own, Clarence plodded through the mud across the pasture. She fervently hoped they were close to the shepherd’s hut. Sinclair needed to get warm and dry, quickly.

Several minutes later she looked up in the fading twilight and saw the outline of a small cottage, barely bigger than the barn behind it. She guided the horse to the front door. “We’re here, my lord,” she said, patting his laced fingers.

He let go and promptly slid to the ground. With a
splat,
he landed on his backside in the mud. “D-damn,” he muttered between blue lips.

“Are you hurt?” Quincy slid out of the saddle and unintentionally dropped to her knees.

“J-just my dignity.” He groaned and heaved himself up to his knees. They stood up together, hands on each other’s shoulders. Quincy’s ungloved hand slid off his coat onto his lawn shirt.

“You’re soaked to the skin!”

“A dip in the stream will do that,” Sinclair said, swaying.

Quincy grabbed his elbow. “Stay here, Clarence,” she said, then wrapped her arm around Sinclair’s waist and helped him to the hut. The door squealed on its hinges when she opened it, allowing the rain-washed wind to replace the musty air inside.

They stood on the threshold a moment while her eyes adjusted to the gloom. A river rock fireplace dominated the left wall, and crude plank shelves lined the right. A small bed was tucked against the far wall, and a table missing one leg and two equally rickety-looking chairs blocked the path to the shelves. There was just enough room to walk around the furniture without bumping into the coat hooks on the wall beside the door.

“Any wood or coal?” Sinclair leaned toward the fireplace, squinting. He stumbled forward, and stubbed his toe on the bedstead.

Quincy ignored his curse and pushed him onto the bed. “Sit down. I don’t have the strength to pick you up off the floor.” She easily fell into the welcome pattern of disguising her concern and relief with a sharp tongue. Sinclair was alive, she’d found him, and they’d reached shelter. Now she just had to get him warm and dry.

She knelt before him and tugged off his boots. As the second boot came off, his ankle was cradled in her hand. She felt a tremor, different from his shivering. Sinclair’s laugh grew louder.

“This seems f-familiar, somehow.”

She smiled, remembering the night she’d put him to bed when he’d been three sheets to the wind. She tried to think of a suitable reply, but her mind went blank when she saw Sinclair wrap his arms around his stomach. Now sober, he stared at a spot beyond her shoulder, his eyes glazed.

“Sinclair?” He didn’t respond. She snapped her fingers a few inches from his nose.

He slowly turned his head toward her. “Quincy? Good. Ring for Harper, won’t you? The f-fire’s burned down.”

Quincy shut her mouth with a snap. “Undress.”

Sinclair gave her a blank stare.

She swallowed hard. “You have to get out of those wet clothes, and Harper isn’t here to help.”

“Mmm.” He nodded and reached up with his hands, but his numb fingers wouldn’t grip the fabric. “Can’t find the buttons,” he said, surprised.

Quincy grasped his icy hands and lowered them to his lap. “Lift your chin,” she ordered. She untied his soaked cravat and pulled it off, then undid the buttons on his waistcoat and shirt, reminding herself she’d performed the same service for her father hundreds of times. This was no different.

She licked suddenly dry lips. Oh, but it
was
different. “Lean back on your elbows, my lord.”

Sinclair missed his elbows, and flopped onto his back.

Her fingers shaking almost as badly as Sinclair’s with the audacity of her actions, she undid his trouser buttons. “Can you manage the rest while I start a fire?”

He held out his hand and she pulled him up. “Thank you, Sergeant,” he said. “You may go now.”

Quincy raised her eyebrows at the non sequitur, but turned toward the fireplace as Sinclair began stripping off his coat. There was wood stacked by the hearth, and a tinderbox on the mantel. She coaxed a flame and blew gently on it, trying to ignore the sound of wet garments sliding over skin and hitting the floor. She turned around when Sinclair cursed again.

He stood beside the bed wearing only goose bumps and damp linen drawers that concealed almost nothing. He was struggling with the tape that held them on his hips.

She gulped. She stumbled back a step, tripping over the hearthstone, and had to grab the mantel to steady herself before she fell into the fire. Hot. It was suddenly much too hot in the hut. The flames cast a golden glow over Sinclair’s skin, all hard planes and muscular curves. The brief glimpses she’d previously had of his chest and leg did nothing to soften the blow of seeing him now, standing in all his masculine glory. A fine figure, indeed.