Grace (34 page)

G
race awoke with a tortured groan when the rough jarring of the coach suddenly worsened, causing her injured head to bounce painfully against the side of the vehicle. Cautiously opening her eyes, she struggled to sit up, but found she could not. Nor could she move her hands or feet. With that realization, her memory came rushing back.

Hastily stifling a terrified whimper, Grace recalled the horrific feeling of a large male hand unexpectedly clamping across her mouth, and then nothing else from that fleeting moment in her chamber until now. As her throbbing head began to clear, she ascertained that she could not move her arms and legs because something bound them securely together. Worse, much worse, she had absolutely no idea of her whereabouts, nor of how long she had been unconscious. And she discovered, for the first time in her life, that deep fear also made her searingly angry. She clenched her teeth in outraged fury, resolutely ignored the throbbing pain in her head, and began kicking her bound feet with all the strength she could muster against the side of the carriage.

“Hey!” she yelled. “Whoever’s out there, you’d better let me out!”

The rocking coach stopped immediately. She heard the
creaking sounds of someone climbing down from the driver’s seat, then the shuffling of feet on the ground. A second later the door near her feet opened, and a familiar figure stepped into her line of vision.

“Harry!” Grace gasped as she recognized the man who stood, framed by the moonlight, smiling down at her. Sir Harry Thomas of Pelthamshire.

“Welcome home, Grace,” he announced, just as if she stood proudly beside him instead of lying in an ignominious heap on the dusty floor of his coach. “Would you like for me to help you down?”

Incredulous, Grace stared at him, sudden alarm threading through her at the pleasantly vacant look on his face. She echoed, “Would I
like
for you to help me down?” Her voice rose. “You want to know if you can help me down? By all means, Harry,
please
help me down. And when you’re finished helping me down, could you also help me to remove these ropes from my hands and feet? Then you could really help by
taking me back home!
” She was nearly shouting by the time she finished. The pounding ache in her head intensified.

Harry shook his head as though at a child throwing a temper tantrum, then bent down and effortlessly scooped her into his arms. “Shhh,” he crooned. “You’re home now, darling.” He turned toward a building that looked vaguely familiar to Grace. She frowned as she tried to recall where she had seen the dwelling before. With a start she recognized the old, no longer used hunting lodge on the very edge of her father’s property. She had often played there as a child.

Slightly relieved to know she would be in familiar territory when she managed to escape, Grace settled herself down with a deep, calming breath. “Put me down and untie me, Harry.” She spoke softly but firmly, hoping to establish some sort of control over this bizarre situation.

Harry continued walking as though he did not hear her.

“If this is supposed to be some sort of prank, I don’t like it at all, and I can promise you my fiancé will like it a good deal less than I.”

Harry’s vacant face suddenly hardened into a mask of cold displeasure. He glared at her. “You will have no husband other than me,” he hissed through clenched teeth. He turned, kicked open the cottage door, and strode inside. He unceremoniously deposited Grace on the only piece of furniture in the room, a stiff-backed wooden chair that offered little more comfort than the floor of the coach.

As he helped her to sit upright in the chair, Grace held her breath, hoping he also planned to untie her wrists and ankles. When he straightened without touching her bonds, then walked over to the window and leaned his elbows on the sill to peer outside, she realized he had no intention of freeing her. A fresh surge of anger coursed through her, but she squelched it with concerted effort, and resolved to try a different tactic. “Harry,” she said softly.

At her now meek tone, the man turned away from the window and stood in a shaft of moonlight that allowed her to see his face quite clearly. He regarded her somewhat warily.

Grace purposely allowed her shoulders to droop as if in surrender. She hoped shadow blanketed her face so that he could not tell how utterly disgusted this helpless act made her feel. “I’m really quite stiff and sore from being jostled on the drive over here. I certainly don’t mean to complain, but I think that if I could just stretch my arms for a moment, it would really be an enormous relief.” She gave him her best look of defenseless appeal, then hung her head and chewed on her lower lip.

Hesitantly he walked toward her, searching her carefully blank, downcast face for any sign of duplicity. Finally he nodded as if satisfied, and loosened the ropes around her
arms and feet, unable to believe a mere female could out-smart him.

Rubbing her chafed wrists, Grace slowly stood on weak legs, careful not to let the triumph she felt show on her face at accomplishing her small goal. Harry kept a watchful eye on her as she walked around the large room. It was empty except for the lone wooden chair and a small box that lay on the floor beneath one of the windows.

“You know, Harry, I can remember when I used to play in here as a child,” she commented, smiling a bit and keeping her tone deliberately light.

A strange glow crept into Harry’s eyes. He smiled back at her, a frightening smile that chilled Grace. “I knew that you would remember our promise, darling, just as soon as I brought you here.” His eyes grew more demented.

“Our promise?” she asked cautiously.

His smile began to fade. “It was here that we first promised to marry each other. Of course you remember that.” He looked suddenly annoyed.

And then Grace recognized him. His name was not Sir Harold Thomas, as the villagers had all been told. “Henry?” she said incredulously.

“See?” He smiled again. “You do remember.”

Grace’s stomach lurched. The head trauma combined with the events of the day finally took their toll. She covered her mouth with a hand and made a mad dash for the closed door. “Hey!” Henry yelled, grabbing her arm as she tried to push past him. He threatened, “Do you want me to tie you up again?”

Grace struggled to free herself with growing desperation. “Please,” she implored. “I’m going to be sick!”

For the first time Henry noted her pallor. He scowled and pushed her impatiently ahead of him across the room and out the door.

Grace fell at once to her knees in the tall grass beside the
doorway, her slim shoulders heaving violently with her stomach’s efforts to empty itself. After a moment she stood and walked unsteadily back into the building, a sheen of cold perspiration breaking out on her face. She sank back into the chair and dropped her head into her trembling hands.

“Do you always have such a weak stomach?” Henry asked crossly. “Have you been ill, Grace?”

She shook her head miserably. “No, of course not. I’ve not eaten in a while, and—” She broke off at the look of blazing fury dawning on his face. She cringed inwardly as he stalked across the room to where she sat.

He leaned down, menacing and threatening. “Are you with child, Grace?” he asked, his tone dangerous. “Don’t tell me you’ve lain with him.”

Grace lifted her chin a notch and refused to answer, two bright spots of angry color flashing on her cheeks. She stared back belligerently at him, no longer able to maintain the facade of friendship. Henry cursed under his breath, grabbed her arms, jerked them painfully back behind the chair, and began to tie them tightly together. Grace did her best to pull away, a futile effort in her weakened condition. Despite her struggles, he tied her arms firmly behind her back and secured her ankles to the legs of the chair.

Grace shifted uncomfortably, then looked up at Henry with renewed ire. “Why are you doing this to me?”

Harry smiled bitterly. “You were supposed to marry
me
, Grace, supposed to carry
my
son.”

She pulled at her ropes again. “And this is supposed to convince me to marry you?”

His sardonic smile turned into a sneer. “No, Grace. Not anymore. You’re ruined now that you carry another man’s brat in your belly.” He waved a hand in her direction. “This is just to keep you here until we can be together in the only way left to us.”

She narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean?” she asked, not bothering to deny his accusations.

Henry walked back to the window and bent to pick up the polished wooden box. He rubbed his hands lovingly across the top as though it contained a great treasure. “Once I’d heard you’d agreed to marry that damned earl, I knew there was only one thing I could do.” He slowly opened the box.

Grace sucked in her breath at the sight of the two gleaming dueling pistols that lay inside, snugly encased in soft black velvet. A knot of cold fear settled in her stomach.

“You see, darling? There’s one for you, and one for me.” He snapped the case shut. “But not quite yet.” He tucked the wooden box under his arm, picked up the lone candle from the floor, and strode across the room toward the door.

“Where are you going?” Grace cried, hating herself for sounding so terrified.

Henry did not answer. He snatched her fallen veil from the floor and used it to gag her. After completing that odious task, he did not even look back; he simply stepped out the front door and closed it with a resounding thud, leaving Grace to the torture of her imagination in the dark silence. A moment later the sound of the shabby coach pulling away broke the stillness.

Resolutely Grace buried the panic that threatened to rise and take over. As the rumble of the carriage wheels faded, she began to work on the ropes that bound her wrists.

T
he late spring full moon was just rising in the inky night sky when Trevor’s shiny black carriage pulled into the short circular drive in front of the Ackerly home. As his conveyance came to a rattling halt, Trevor slammed the door open and erupted from within, striding up the wide front steps and sweeping into the house. Ignoring the butler’s greeting and brushing aside the hand outstretched to take his cape, Trevor stalked grimly across the hall to the drawing room, where he heard voices engaged in conversation. Sebastian followed more slowly.

The summons had come at midmorning. Bingham had wasted no time when it was determined that Grace had not come to the house in Pelthamshire. He’d hastily penned the necessary note and given it to the man Trevor sent along for that very purpose. Riding hard on dark, dangerous roads, he’d reached London in record time. Trevor sent for Sebastian, and the two had been on their way to the small village by early afternoon.

His gaze swept the room. He saw Patience reach blindly for one of the twins’ hands. The other twin, he supposed Charity, glared angrily at him, as though she somehow held him responsible for her missing sister. Faith simply stood with a trembling hand pressed against her lips.

Mercy slipped in from the foyer. She took a step toward her father, then turned to Trevor. “Did you find Grace?” she asked.

A muscle worked in his jaw. He looked down at her but couldn’t answer.

A little frantically, she looked at Sebastian. “Where is my sister?”

“We aren’t sure, urchin,” the duke answered.

She stood frozen for a moment, then abruptly rushed from the room. She pushed past both men, the beginning of a sob trailing in her wake. The sound of her running footsteps echoed loudly through the foyer, followed by the loud slam of the heavy oak door as she fled from the house.

Bingham started to follow, but Sebastian held up a restraining hand. “I’ll go,” he offered quietly. He exchanged a speaking look with Trevor, silently communicating that he wondered if Mercy knew more about Grace’s disappearance than she had told the others. “Does she have a favorite place she often goes?” Sebastian asked.

Amity spoke up softly. “Sometimes Mercy takes the forest path from behind the stables to the wide part of the stream when she wants to be alone.”

Sebastian gifted her with a grateful, encouraging smile, then took his leave. His long black cape billowed out behind him, his booted feet echoing a deep staccato as he crossed the hardwood foyer.

Patience stepped forward and looked at Trevor. “Please, my lord, tell us what you think happened to Grace.” Her voice, thick with worry, sounded strangled.

Trevor shook his head in mystified frustration, unable to provide much more information. “Cleo has heard nothing from her. I made inquiries into possible means of transportation from the city, but nobody I spoke with remembers a lone woman of Grace’s description on any hired
conveyance.” He looked at Bingham. “None of the Egerton horses are missing. I begin to wonder if she left of her own accord.”

Faith spoke up then, her logical mind leaping nimbly to the glaring holes in his brief explanation. Her forehead furrowed in concentration as she asked, “Did anyone think to search the rest of Aunt Cleo’s house?”

Trevor looked sheepish. “No, we didn’t,” he admitted.