The Earl's Enticement (Castle Bride Series) (9 page)

CHAPTER 10

Adaira hummed a cheerful tune as she made her way to Marquardt’s cell. She popped the last of the savory crust in her mouth. Things had turned out splendidly. In less than a day, she’d be heralded as a hero for detaining him.

There was still the awkward business with Brayan, though. She wasn’t certain how to remedy that situation. Their friendship had taken an ugly turn. She couldn’t fathom a way their relationship could be repaired. Truth to tell, she didn’t want the friendship restored. She would never trust him again. One didn’t threaten a friend with extortion.

There was darkness in his soul.

She’d keep his threat to herself. There was no reason for anyone else to know, although she’d been sorely tempted to tell her father. But he’d tell Mother. Then Adaira would have to lie to cover up Brayan’s involvement with Marquardt.

Her footsteps slowed, and she found herself tiptoeing as she neared her prisoner’s cell. Odd, it was unlit and eerily silent. Unease skidded over her.

Had the fool truly used all the candles? How was that possible? She’d left him more than a dozen. Each one burned for at least six hours. She quickly calculated in her head. A trifle over thirty-eight hours had passed since she’d left him. He should have a few candles remaining, even if he burned them around the clock.

Holding her breath, she edged closer to the cell, afraid of what she might see. “Mr. Marquardt. . .?”

“You’re a vindictive wench, aren’t you?” His voice was scarcely more than a hoarse growl.

Adaira peered into the gloomy chamber. Where was he? She lifted the lantern. He sat wedged in a corner, the table propped before him. Or rather, what was left of it. He’d broken the legs off. The armchair lay on its side, jammed against the destroyed table. He’d built himself a makeshift fortress.

Adaira’s mouth fell open. “What in heaven’s name. . .?”

Marquardt rose, slowly unfolding his tall frame from a hunkered position. His expression savage, he held a battered table leg in his hand.

“Do you have any idea, you heartless bitch, how vicious and brazen rodents become when there’s no light?”

Dumbstruck, her gaze dipped to the floor. Twenty or more rats lay dead, their thrashed bodies strewn across the ground, some in puddles of blackened blood. A wave of revulsion engulfed her, immediately followed by swirling dizziness. Inky spots flickered before her eyes.

Stop it! You will not faint, Adaira Brenna Georgette Ferguson. You. Will. Not!

Closing her eyes, she pressed her fingers to her forehead and sucked in a gulp of clammy air. She started, her eyelids popping open in alarm, when he viciously kicked the table aside. It skittered across the cell and crashed into the wall, splintering into several pieces.

He’s gone mad. Off his head, he is.

“I’d a hard enough time keeping the vermin at bay with a candle lit.” He stalked to the cell door. Fury fairly radiated from him. He no longer wore his coat. His muscled arms and chest strained against the confines of his once white shirt. He’d torn the coat into strips and wrapped several lengths around his forearms.

To ward off the rats?

“Dear God,” Adaira whispered, horrified. Even he didn’t deserve such treatment. For every predatory stride Marquardt advanced, she retreated a leery step.

“You drugged the wine. Laudanum I’d guess from the effects. While I was unconscious,” he waved the hand holding the table leg, indicating the dead rats, “the little demons ate every morsel of food.” He snorted contemptuously. “And the candles too, I might add. After all, rancid mutton fat must be quite a treat to these vermin.”

Marquardt pointed at the dead rats again. “A few decided to have a go at me.”

Appalled, her gaze flew from him to the rats, then back to him once more. “I. . .” She swallowed against a wave of sickness. “I had no idea. . .”

She stuttered to a stop, gaping at him in disbelief.

“Drugged? Did you say the wine was
drugged
?”

His lips curled into a sneer. “It’s too late for half-hearted theatrics, my dear. Don’t insult my intelligence by feigning ignorance.”

He stared at her hard. “Who else but you had access to the wine?”

Brayan. The scurrilous lout.

Adaira willed her thrumming heart to stop its assault on her ribs. She clenched her jaw against the unpleasant emotions assailing her. Fear. Guilt. Remorse.

She opened the bulging sack she held. “I came to tell you Ewan’s returned home.”

Holding the bag to her chest, as if it offered her protection from the fiery darts spewing from Marquardt’s rage-filled gaze, she lifted her chin and boldly met his eyes. “I’ll tell him you’re here.”

She’d intended to wait until tomorrow. But given the half-mad look in his eyes, and the ghastliness of what he’d undergone defending himself against the rats, her Christian conscience wouldn’t allow him to suffer further. Never mind, he’d brought this on himself or that according to rumor, Newgate’s conditions were far harsher.

She’d never deliberately cause another to suffer mental or physical anguish. A bit of discomfort perhaps, if she’d no alternative. But prolonged torment? No. She knew too well some things haunted one for the rest of one’s life.

Except, as noble as it sounded, the sentiment was drivel. She’d imagined all sorts of fitting punishments for Godwin, and each included various forms of severe suffering.

Shame beset her. “I’ll seek Ewan out as soon as I’m above stairs.”

“How very generous of you.” Marquardt haughtily looked down his straight, aristocratic nose.

She resisted the urge to touch the slight hump on hers.

He tossed aside the table leg before beginning to unwind the fabric from his arms. He paused and glared at the bundle she clutched to her chest like a makeshift shield. “Well, are you going to continue to starve me?”

Adaira shook her head, saying, “No, I . . .”

Her stomach coiling into a sickening knot at the stench of blood and dead vermin, Adaira set the lantern on the floor. She knelt beside it and rested the sack on the top of her thighs.

“If you’ll move away from the door . . .”

“Bloody hell! Still playing that game, are we?” Glowering, Marquardt raked his hand through his hair. Righting the armchair, he flopped into it, then continued to unwrap his arms. “I don’t suppose you brought anything to treat wounds?”

In the act of removing his food, Adaira froze. “They bit you?”

She swiftly skimmed him, searching for evidence of blood or small puncture wounds. Nothing visible. She relaxed the tiniest bit. She scrutinized the dead rats. “There never used to be so many of them.”

He scoffed, “Oh, and you’re accustomed to spending a great deal of time in this abyss?” His angry blue gaze roamed the cell. “Little witch that you are, somehow that doesn’t surprise me.”

He tossed off the last scrap of material, then rotated and flexed his wrists. “I hope you brought fresh water. At least I can clean the scratches.”

Crossing his legs, he relaxed into the chair. Casually, as if he were carrying on a cordial conversation in the finest drawing room, he said, “I’ve decided to rescind my vow of never striking a woman.”

Adaira rested her rear on her heels. “What a surprise,” she quipped in a futile attempt to cover the frisson of fright freezing her blood.

His hooded gaze sank to her buttocks. “A spoilt, troublesome termagant like you deserves a firm hand on her enticing posterior.”

Leaving the sack by the door, she stood. “As you’ll never be alone with me, or for that matter, see me again once I go above, the likelihood of you ever touching me is less than a snowflake’s chance of surviving in hell.”

She lifted the lantern from the floor, and with her spine ramrod stiff, marched away, her boots clicking rhythmically on the stone floor.

“I’ll send Ewan straightaway,” Adaira called without turning around. She’d no desire to lay eyes on that scunner, Marquardt, ever again. He’d been nothing but a troublesome nuisance.

She’d send Ewan. If she could find him.

This time Marquardt didn’t scream at her for taking the light. Evidentially he’d grown accustomed to the dungeon’s hellish gloom. Fitting since he was a spawn of the devil. She could feel his evil glare on her. What other reason could there be for the peculiar fluttering in her belly and tingling along her nerves?

Consumed with her thoughts, Adaira trudged along the corridor. Was Ewan still within the castle? He’d been absent over three weeks. He also had responsibilities in Craigcutty. He might well be out and about the estate.

“This way, Yvette.”

Aubry?

Her cousin’s distant voice carried far in the silence of the dungeon.

Adaira stumbled to a halt. After the grief Aubry had caused Yvette, what was her sister-in-law doing in the keep’s bowels with her?

Aubry had lied to Yvette, claiming Ewan was her betrothed, and he’d only married Yvette for her fortune. Complete and utter nonsense, of course. Aubry’s vicious fabrications had nearly destroyed Ewan and Yvette’s love. Aubry was every bit as wicked as the fiend Adaira had left stewing in his cell moments ago.

Adaira extinguished her light. She crept along the passageway on her toes. The leather of her boots made little scuffing creaks. Dratted boots. Impossible to walk quietly in them.

She took a couple more tentative steps, then stopped to listen. Whatever was Yvette thinking, accompanying Aubry into the dungeon? Another half dozen strides. Adaira knew Yvette couldn’t abide Aubry and had made a point to avoid her these past weeks.

Four more quick paces. Something was too smoky by half. Was there someone else in the dungeon? Someone waiting for Aubry?

Adaira bit the inside of her cheek. But who?

“Where exactly is Seonaid?” Yvette asked, her voice quivering slightly. “Are you certain this is the shortest way?”

Adaira sucked in a silent gulp of air.
Seonaid?

“I told you, near the wetlands, and yes, this route is far shorter than going around the outer wall,” Aubry said.

Wetlands? Adaira went rigid. Aubry lied.

Seonaid was tending a wounded dog, unless she’d gone to the wetlands for herbs. Adaira crept forward another pair of steps. Her confounded heels announced each movement. She sat down, then pried off the tight boots, refusing to contemplate what she might be sitting in. Soundlessly, she scrambled upright. Her progress, now silent, she hurried along the passage.

Every instinct told Adaira her contemptible cousin was leading Yvette into a trap. Adaira didn’t dare run for help. She’d risk losing them if she didn’t stay on their trail.

Throughout the depths of the keep, lay a labyrinth of passageways, dozens of chambers and doors, and at least as many subchambers. If Adaira lost track of the women, she’d have a deucedly wicked time finding them again.

She strained to see in the blackness. A light glowed faintly in the distance, coming closer. There they were. A few moments later, Yvette and Aubry walked past the end of the long corridor Adaira occupied. Should she shout? What if Aubry had a weapon? Would she use it on Yvette? Aubry had been trained in weaponry right alongside Adaira and her sisters. And if her cousin had an accomplice, Adaira wanted to know who it was.

She flattened herself against the wall accidentally kicking a loose piece of stone. It rattled noisily. She stooped low and pressed against the cold, dank stones.

Yvette gasped and stopped. She looked directly into the corridor where Adaira crouched.

“Just rats,” Aubry said. “Hurry, we’re almost there.”

Yvette and Aubry continued to talk in hushed tones. The soft rustling of their skirts and the swish of their slippered feet faded away.

Adaira crept forward to follow them. A door clicked closed in the distance, and she heard them no more. Feeling her way along the wall, she paused at the end of the passage. She strained her eyes for the slightest trace of light.

She took a hesitant step forward. Confound it. She needed a match to relight her lantern. A muffled sound rent the stagnant air. Was that a scream? The hair on the nape of Adaira’s neck rose.

“Dear God, Yvette!” Adaira choked out.

Without hesitation she turned and in the lightless gloom, felt her way along the wall. Half-running, she awkwardly rushed back in the direction of Marquardt.

He had matches.

A faint flicker of amber glimmered ahead. Sprinting, she tore back to his cell, scraping her hands along the rough wall. She slid to a stop at the sight before her. He stood washing himself, naked from the waist up.

Holy Mother of God. He’s beautiful.

At Adaira’s inarticulate sound, surprise, quickly followed by discomfiture, swept his face and lingered in his eyes. Fine chestnut-brown hair covered his glistening muscled chest and disappeared into the vee of his unfastened pantaloons.

Her gaze involuntarily whizzed the length of his body. A hot flush rushed from her neck to her forehead. She gawked, jaw gaping. She was certain the sensation whipping across her senses was pure lust. Astonishment widened her eyes. Marquardt might be a knave of the worst sort, but he had the form of a Greek god.

More’s the pity.

“What the hell are you doing back here?” he snarled.

“Matches,” she gasped, thrusting the lantern at him. “I need matches. Aubry tricked Yvette.”

“Aubry? Who the blazes is Aubry?”

“My cousin on my father’s side.” Adaira’s lower lip began to tremble. “I saw them together, and then I heard a scream.”

Tears trickled over the rims of her eyes. She scrubbed at them angrily. She hadn’t the time for waterworks.

Marquardt went rigid. “A scream?”