Surrender to a Wicked Spy (32 page)

Stupid pride and desperation had prompted her to claim herself more healed than she was. To lie in that bed for several more days, with Petty doting and Dane there, somewhere in the house, feeling him there but never seeing him, knowing what she knew now—

She'd heard every word he'd said about his father and she had known then that there was no hope. Dane thought love was a weakness, an illness, a stain on the soul to be washed out.

She'd lain there, listening, and realized that she didn't want Dane's sort of love.

She'd told herself that she would be fine alone. She'd been alone for a very long time, even when Walter was alive. Alone was a familiar place to be.

But cold.

She wrapped her arms about her middle, thinking of the possibilities. She might be carrying now. If Dane didn't want her child, then she would raise it herself, at Cheltenham.

She didn't allow herself to think about if he did want her child. If she bore a boy, Dane would surely want him. What would happen if a powerful lord wanted her child but not her?

Once she would have declared Dane incapable of that sort of heartlessness. Now she wondered.

Another jolt reminded her of a more practical, immediate problem than her possible offspring.

She needed to use the chamber pot. Not a wise move when in motion.

Bracing herself on the opposite seat and stretching high, she struck the ceiling of the carriage with the heel of her hand. Errol popped open the small trap there.

"Yes, my lady?"

"I think it's time we had a rest, Errol."

"Yes, my lady. Will you be wanting your maid?"

The thought of Petty fluttering over her made Olivia nearly shudder. "No, I wish a bit of quiet. I—I might have a nap."

Unlikely, with her leg throbbing that way, but it would keep the overly solicitous Greenleigh staff away. Olivia longed to go home to her silly pottering old butler and housekeeper, dependent and sweet and needing her to care for them.

The carriage slowed and rolled to a most perfect stop. "Errol, you're a marvel," she called out. She might keep Errol. There was much to be said for skillful driving.

She heard him jump down, followed by a rain of footmen leaping down from her carriage. Heavens, she felt like a dog with too many fleas.

Well, they would all take their time eating, thinking her napping quietly.

Olivia bent to drag the unused chamber pot from beneath the seat. Unfortunately, she found it impossible to use. Unable to truly bend her wounded leg, there was no way to do it without—er, missing.

The thought of riding for hours in a urine-stained coach was nearly as bad as the prospect of explaining it later.

She could call for Petty, who had helped her often in the last two days—but she'd never get rid of her again.

Her leg throbbed, her bladder ached, and her head was beginning to pound as the carriage grew stuffier now that it wasn't moving.

Air was what she needed. Air and a careful stretch of her legs and a chance to… well, she was country bred, after all.

She slipped out of the far door of the carriage, away from where the servants were gathered with their hampers. She had her own dinner packed in the carriage, which she would eat when she returned.

The day was warmish, considering the season. She spent a few moments limping up and down alongside the carriage, until her thigh cramp eased.

Then she carefully stepped down the slight slope—nothing like the road at Kirkall, thank heavens—to the brushy area beside the road. She'd go in a bit to find a nice thicket. She wasn't completely shameless, after all.

She found one straightaway, and quite a relief it was. Done, she awkwardly bent to wash her hands in a tiny streamlet. A stick cracked nearby. She carefully straightened. "Now, don't carry on, Petty. I was only—"

Sumner stood before her, filthy and wild looking, his blue eyes desperate.

Olivia took a hurried step back, forgetting her wound. With a cry, she felt her leg give out beneath her. In a flash, Sumner was on her, his hand covering her mouth.

"I didn't want you hurt," he gasped. "I did my best, but you would go and make him fall in love with you."

Olivia felt herself being dragged, back and away from the road and help. She struggled wildly, but he had her from behind now with his other arm about her waist. Her limbs flailed uselessly. Finally, he picked her up off the ground entirely and lurched off into the wood with her.

Olivia awoke in the dark. "I am entirely weary of waking up on the ground," she murmured tightly, or at least she tried to around the cloth strip tied over her mouth. This time at least, she was on a floor made of wide splintery planks.

Her head pounded, but that was because of hanging head down over the withers of blasted Sumner's blasted bony nag. Her thigh was a beaten bruise now, pushed beyond any healing she'd managed by the straggling she'd done.

Her hands didn't hurt much, it was true, but that was likely because they were numb from being tied behind her back. She was still bound, but not for long. She'd not had a brother mad for playacting for nothing. This was hardly the first time in her life she'd been tied up.

"I've been bound by pirates and Red Indians," she muttered around her gag. "All better men than you, Sumner."

She took a breath, for this was going to hurt in the condition she was in, then bent nearly double and slid her bound hands down over her buttocks, over the backs of her thighs—
breathe deep; do it anyway
—the backs of her calves, and finally up and over her bound feet.

Pull the gag out first. Then use one's teeth to figure out the knot.
Hmph. Sumner obviously did
not
have a brother
. The knot was a simple double one and not all that tight. She managed to worry it free, though her jaw ached mightily by the time she was done.
I never thought I'd thank you for that, Walter
.

The bindings on her feet were simple enough. Finally, she stood, free.

To be stuck in a dark room. With a sigh, she began to explore. There was the splintery floor. That told her she wasn't in a house, or at least not a very nice house. She moved carefully, sliding her feet just in case there were rotted places, for she smelled rot, clearly. Her outstretched hands touched wall. More splintery planks.

All right, that meant some sort of utilitarian building. A stable? A springhouse?

She became aware of the sound of rushing water. And that smell—she knew that smell. It was a compound of damp rot, dry wood—

And ancient flour.

She was in the abandoned Cheltenham flour mill.

She laughed out loud. "Sumner, you idiot. I know this place upside and down." She'd even been tied up here before, come to think of it, before she and Walter had been forbidden to play in the rotting building.

She followed the wall and found the crude door. Locked. "I thought so." She turned from the door and walked confidently toward the center of the room. The giant millstone would still be here, far too heavy for anyone to steal. "One, two, three—"

She stumbled and fell over something unpleasantly soft and giving. She reached out, patting carefully, then drew her hand back sharply at the feel of cold flesh.

She was locked in the old mill with a dead body.

Then her mood lightened when it occurred to her that it might be Sumner who was dead. "I've never been bloodthirsty before," she explained to the body. "But I've come to believe that some people deserve to die."

She reached out carefully, letting her fingers lightly look for some sort of identifying characteristic. Sumner was tall. So was the body. Sumner had big hands. So did the body. Sumner had longish dirty hair. So did the body.

"Well, things are looking up," she murmured. She took a breath and reached for the face, hoping it wouldn't be too icky. She ran her hands lightly over the forehead. High brow. Could be Sumner.

Straight nose. Could be Sumner.

Half-inch-long crescent-shaped scar just below the left eye. Could be—

"Walter?"

«
^
»

Nate's horse threw a shoe mere hours into the journey. When the three riders met a crossroad that showed high traffic, Stanton suggested they follow it to the nearest village and change out horses. They'd pushed a fast pace, although Galahad was barely winded.

Dane knew Galahad could make it, and it was unlikely they'd find a horse that could carry him at some coaching-inn hostelry. There was a fine tree at the crossing and a small grass-lined stream.

"I'll wait here and rest Galahad. Fetch me back a meat pie and a flask of wine."

The other two eyed him curiously but nodded. Dane didn't want to explain his need to be alone.

As they rode on, Dane dismounted and removed Galahad's bridle, letting the stallion graze. Dane reached into his satchel for a hoof pick to make sure Galahad didn't come up lame.

His hand encountered something that ought not to be in there. He pulled out a small book bound in blue leather that he'd never seen before. He flipped a few pages and froze, recognizing the cramped tiny lettering.

This was Olivia's. He marveled at page after page filled with the tiny printing. Who knew she had so much to say?

Suddenly he noticed the smile spread across his face. He snapped the diary shut and stuffed it back in the bag. With swift efficiency he tended the stallion's hooves, then hesitated as he deposited the pick back in the satchel. A blue corner stuck up out of the opening.

He shoved it back down, hard, then strode to the tree and threw himself down in the shade. It was far too warm for this time of year. He rotated his shoulders uneasily. Such weather made him restless, itchy.

He gazed sightlessly down the white chalk roads crossing the moor. Barrowby used to talk about the moor, going on about how a man could think with so much sky above him.

The last thing Dane wanted was to think.

If he thought, he would have to ponder why he'd felt something break inside him when he'd watched Olivia's carriage disappear around the curve.

He'd have to wonder why it was he couldn't go three minutes without thinking of her, despite the urgency of his mission.

He'd have to wonder why he was perishing to read her diary.

He rubbed a hand across his cheek. Her diary would be full of her. It would bring her close again, just when he'd managed a bit of distance.

There might be some interesting intelligence inside.

For once, Dane welcomed the suspicious voice of the Lion. Of course! He must read the diary. He sprang to his feet, startling Galahad.

Soothing the horse, Dane finally reached for the satchel. Thrusting his hand inside, he felt about for the book.

He couldn't find it. Impatiently he yanked the ties that held the satchel to the saddle and dumped the damn thing out on the ground.

The book plopped out onto the pile of clothing he was apparently not going to be wearing without a good cleaning.

Dane picked it up and went back to his spot under the tree. He was a fast reader, despite Olivia's odd writing, and it wasn't long before he was thoroughly engrossed in her thoughts.

The first half must have covered the last year or more, for she talked of holidays with Walter and her parents, of the state of Cheltenham, of her worries about her sickly staff and the last remaining cottagers.

"Cow suppositories?" Had he read that correctly?

Then he encountered the hurried, careless scribbling telling of Walter's death.

Drowning? Walter? It doesn't seem possible when he swam better than I!

Dane frowned. Now that he thought on it, it did seem unlikely. Olivia was a superior swimmer; he'd seen it for himself. It might behoove him to look further into Walter's death after all.

Then there was the entry about the day on the bridge. "Viking god?" he muttered, smiling slightly. Then, "I am
not
a dandy!"

His eyes flew over the pages, reading faster and faster. Her confusion about his lack of courtship. Her frustration with her mother's insistence that the family forgo mourning. Her fears about wedding a stranger.

He could have eased those fears so easily—but then again, most of them had come true, hadn't they? She'd been abused, neglected, and ultimately sent away.

Then he found the torn page.

He dug the scrap of paper from his weskit pocket and matched it to the other half. It was a poem of sorts. A very bad one, but then he didn't think she'd ever meant anyone else to read it.

If one gathered together the finest of men/If one took the broad shoulders of this one fellow/And the fair hair of that one. / The blue eyes of another/And the chiseled features of that one over there.

The intelligence of the scholar/The sensitivity of the poet/The humor of the rogue/ The wealth of the king /The virility of the stallion/Then you might have a man like mine.

The mystery is… Why is he mine?/What do I have that would attract/A man such as that?

I am not beautiful, nor particularly good. / I am not wise, nor am I always clever. /I am not elegant, nor poised, nor even witty.

If there is some strange attraction, then dare I think that answer to the mystery be love?/And though I might not be worthy, it is possible that he does not yet know that. / Might I make myself worthy somehow? Might I become a woman who is loved?/Might I earn that mistaken adoration honestly/So that it might not leave me when he finds out the truth?

Might he then be tricked into loving me?

Dane put the diary down and blew out a breath. And she'd been worried about living up to
his
expectations? He was no paragon, no poet, no king.

The stallion bit, well…

So the scrap of betraying evidence was simply part of a—a love poem. He tipped the book up and peered at the date of that entry. It was the day after they had wed.

Well, he had done rather well that night… not that she would have known the difference. These weren't the musings of a seductress. These were the thoughts of a young woman, innocent yet wise beyond her years.