The Haunting of a Duke (15 page)

She ran, her breath hitching in her side. Branches tore at her hair and clothes, but she paid them little heed. Reaching the center of the maze, she quickly exited the other side. No heed was paid to the twists and turns, and she didn't question how she knew which turns to take. The knowledge was simply there, and she was grateful for it.

Inside the house, Rhys studied the sheaf of papers in front of him, though he could not actually focus on them. He had just sent a letter to Emme's stepfather by special messenger, not requesting her hand so much as informing him that he would be wedding her within days. It would not be well received. He stood and walked to the window, staring out at the garden. Rain had just begun to fall. Where was Emme, he wondered? What refuge had she sought from the vicious gossips that morning?

He couldn't fathom his behavior of the night before. That she was compromised was not at issue. Regardless of what had happened between them, just being in one another's presence, without a chaperone, in varying degrees of undress as they had been, was more than enough to see them wed. It was the visceral reaction he had that disturbed his peace. He was not some green lad to lose his head at the sight of a pretty girl, or a shapely figure. This was something more. The intensity was alarming. Excessive passions had never plagued him before. He certainly had not lived like a monk by any stretch of the imagination, but never had he felt such an intense and consuming desire.

Unable to concentrate, he stepped outside onto the terrace and moved toward the rose garden. He couldn't say that he was being directed, but he did feel compelled, as if pulled in the direction of the maze. As he neared the boxwoods, he could hear the sound of footsteps, of running. Emme rushed out of the maze toward him, her hair and clothing disheveled, and a scratch upon her neck. What he noted more than that, was the other footsteps, still inside the maze, receding now. Someone had been chasing her.

"Emme, what is it? What's happened?” he demanded.

She was gasping for breath and shaking, but she shook her head, and he understood that she wasn't yet able to speak. His every instinct told him to go into the maze and find whatever or whoever had frightened her, but he couldn't leave her unprotected. He wiped her face, pushing her hair back. Her eyes were wild and panicked. She was obviously frightened.

"Come,” he said, “we need to get you inside."

"Yes, I think that's wise,” she said, still breathless and trembling.

Rhys helped her to stand and walked her back to the house. They entered through the library and he seated her before the fireplace. He stoked the fire to blazing and called for a footman to bring a lap robe.

"Miss Walters was lost in the maze when the rain began,” he explained, “we need blankets and hot tea, quickly."

When the footman had gone, Emme looked at him. “I wasn't lost. Someone was following me."

Rhys nodded. “I know. I heard them. But there is no reason we should alert the household to it."

Emme nodded, relieved that he did not think her hysterical.

He moved back to the desk and retrieved the journal she had given him the night before. “Do you know what this is?” he asked her.

She shook her head. “No, I don't recall ever having seen that book until last night."

Rhys settled himself beside her on the settee, “In the tower, hidden behind two locked doors and in a secret compartment, you went to it unerringly, as if someone had told you exactly how to find it, or as if you had been in that room before. I am trying to wrap my very rational mind around it, but I can't. “

Emme stared at the book in his hand. “It's hers?"

"Yes. It is Elise's journal. I do not wish to hear that you were sleepwalking, or any of the other excuses you've given people. I need the truth. How does this work?"

Emme shook her head, “I can't tell you that, because I don't understand it myself. Sometimes, when I go to sleep, I will wake up in strange rooms, unsure of how I came to be there, and sometimes unsure of how to get back."

He nodded. He didn't understand, of course, but he was attempting to. It was beyond his comprehension, as he imagined it would be for almost anyone. “Does this happen wherever you go?"

"No. It happened at the Hendersons. That is how I located Lady Henderson's necklace and at the Montclaires'. That is how I found out about Lord Montclaire and Lady Cuthbert. I rarely go anywhere as an overnight guest, unless I have been invited for such a purpose."

Rhys had known about that, or at least known about the rumors. Emme had solved the mystery of Lord Montclaire's murder. His mistress, Lady Cuthbert, had become furious when he had thrown her over and had poisoned him. He had heard, but he had not believed. He still did not, but the certainty was not so great. Something had happened in that room that was beyond understanding.

"Do you believe it was Elise who led you to this journal?"

Emmaline shook her head, “I don't know. I don't know if it was Elise, or if it was someone else. If you recognize the journal as being hers, then it must have been. But I have no memory of being in the tower, until...."

Her voice trailed off and a flush crept over her pale cheeks. He remembered all too well what had occurred on the daybed.

The footmen entered then, carrying blankets, followed by a maid with a tea tray.

"The guests have all gone but for Mrs. Haverston, Lady Isabella and Lord Ellersleigh, Your Grace,” the maid said. “The family has remained. Lady Eleanor is here and she expects Lord Alistair to return shortly."

"Thank you Mary, that will be all,” he said, dismissively, as he tucked the blanket around Emme and poured a cup of steaming hot tea for her. He thrust it into her hands and she accepted it gratefully. When she'd been a child her nurse had often told her that there was little in the world that could not be made better with a cup of tea.

After the servants left, Emme looked up at him. “If the guests have all gone, who was behind me in the garden?"

Rhys considered that question carefully. “I don't know, but I mean to find out. In the meantime, I'll be leaving for London this afternoon. I mean to obtain a special license. I have also sent a letter to your parents. We shall wed on Saturday."

Emme gasped. She understood the necessity of moving quickly, but she hadn't expected it to be so quickly. “My family has no idea. It doesn't matter, of course. At my age I hardly need stepfather's permission as anything more than a courtesy."

"I apologize, but the scandal is such that we cannot afford to wait. The sooner our marriage can be announced, the sooner the scandal can be put to rest."

Emme nodded. It wasn't such a hardship really. A quiet wedding in the country would garner much less attention and gossip than a lavish affair in town. “You're quite right. It is probably for the best this way."

Rhys considered her easy capitulation, “I will leave just after luncheon. I will ask Michael to stay here. The villain, whoever he is, has grown desperate. You must use every precaution."

"Yes, of course. I'm quite recovered now. I will return to my room, if you'll excuse me, Your Grace?"

He walked toward her, and gently cupped her face. “Rhys. My name is Rhys,” he corrected her. “And I think now would be the appropriate time to begin using it."

Her breath caught. “Very well, Rhys."

His name on her lips took his breath. He leaned forward, placing a kiss at the corner of her lips.

It was disconcerting for her that with a single touch he could send her senses reeling. She could feel her blood pulsing beneath her skin. She leaned into him, her palms resting against his chest, feeling the heart beating beneath her hand.

There was no longer any reason not to indulge. His arms closed about her and he deepened the kiss. Her incendiary response pushed him over the edge. He slid his fingers into her hair, and tilted her head back, deepening the kiss. The feel of her pressed against him, of her warmth, and the sweet taste of her lips called to some primal part of him that he did not recognize. With his heart thundering in his chest, his body reacted to her tentative response swiftly and predictably."What you do to me,” he said, breathing the words against her lips.

He broke the kiss, but did not move away from her. Instead, he cradled her head to his chest, and held her there. Emme could hear his heart pounding furiously, and knew that it mirrored her own.

"I have behaved properly my entire life and I seem to lose all sense with you,” she said.

He smiled against the top of her head, inhaling the sweet scent of her hair. “For which I am eternally grateful. If one is to take a wife, it is nice to know that she welcomes your touch."

Emme pulled back from him. “Did Elise not welcome your touch?"

He shrugged. Discussing Elise was the last thing he wanted to do. “Elise welcomed everyone's touch but mine. She was troubled, I suppose. Truth was a fluid thing for her; it changed like the weather, as did her moods and her desires."

It was unfathomable to Emme, when her skin craved contact with his and even the merest glance could make her blood race. “Have you read the journal yet?"

"Only a few pages,” he admitted.

She shouldn't press, but something, some hidden knowledge prompted her to speak. Emme stepped back. “She wanted us to find it for a reason."

Rhys felt a flash of irritation, “With all due respect, Elise is dead. And if she has any wants or desires, I find myself reluctant to fall all over myself to grant her wishes."

Emme pulled away from him and his dark mood. She strode to the door, her steps weary. “Be that as it may, the dead will not be ignored.” She knew that he was not ready to face what was in that book, regardless of what he had said. Unfortunately, time was a luxury they did not possess. “The book holds Elise's secrets, but those secrets hold the key to Melisande's murderer."

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As weddings went, it was austere. They were married in the same church in the village that they had visited on their previous outing. The vicar was cool and favored them with disapproving stares throughout the brief ceremony. The ceremony was witnessed by Lord Ellersleigh, Lady Phyllis and her aunt, Lady Isabella. Lady Eleanor declined to come, pleading a headache. Emme's stepfather and mother declined to attend. After the ceremony, taken directly from the Book of Common Prayer, they returned to Briarwood for a small supper.

It was hardly a momentous celebration, but Lady Phyllis persevered in her attempts to make it a jovial evening. Following the excellent dinner, the chef having outdone himself, the ladies pled exhaustion and retired early. Michael had simply vanished, and Emme and Rhys were alone in the drawing room.

"Why don't you retire? I'll join you shortly,” he suggested.

Emme could feel his gaze upon her. She nodded and then left the room without speaking. Her mouth had gone dry and she doubted she could have produced a comprehensible response, at any rate.

She knew, of course, what was to happen. Her aunt had taken it upon herself to explain the entire process the evening before. It had been a decidedly awkward and embarrassing conversation. Lady Isabella, in spite of her many lovers, did not have a high opinion of the marriage bed or what transpired in it. She essentially told Emme to simply think pleasant thoughts and lie still. What Isabella had described had been so very different from the brief encounter she had shared with Rhys in the tower that she couldn't imagine her aunt's advice had any validity.

Gussy, who had been present for the educational monologue, held her tongue until Isabella had departed. The minute the door closed behind her, Gussy had let out a snort that effectively represented her opinion on the matter. “Don't listen to a word she says, my girl,” Gussy had said. “If your future husband didn't know how to make a woman lose all sense, then he wouldn't be your future husband, would he?"

With that pithy statement, Gussy left the room and had left her alone with her thoughts.

It had been a well articulated point, she mentally conceded. As Gussy helped her undress, and helped her into her night rail, she tried valiantly to think of anything else. She wasn't afraid of Rhys, or even of the act that remained shrouded in mystery. It was more that she feared not pleasing him, that in her ignorance she would make a horrible cake of herself.

No sooner had the thought occurred than she felt the overwhelming sensation of no longer being alone. She turned to the door, but it was still vacant. She couldn't shake the feeling however, that someone was watching. Warily, she scanned the room, stepping backward until her back was against the wall. It was a most disconcerting feeling.

"Is the prospect of our wedding night truly that frightening?"

Emme gasped, and turned toward the adjoining door of their chambers. “How long have you been standing there?” she demanded.

"Just now,” he replied. “Is everything all right?"

Nerves, she thought. It was nothing more than an attack of nerves. But she couldn't shake the feeling that it was more. She shivered. “It's fine. Everything is fine."

Rhys studied her, noting the pallor of her cheeks and tightly clenched fists. She was frightened, but he didn't think it was of him. “Why don't you come to my chamber instead?” he suggested.

She could feel the weight of his gaze on her. She turned and noted his deceptively casual stance in the adjoining doorway of their rooms. He had discarded his boots and his coat. His waistcoat was open and his cravat had vanished. The exposed skin at the V of his shirt was sun bronzed. It made her heart race, as did the heated look in his eyes. Anticipation and nerves warred within her. Though his touch inflamed her, the unknown was still daunting. As her blood raced in her veins, she acknowledged that it was equal parts fear and desire.

"Very well,” she said, and placed her hand in his large, outstretched palm.

Rhys knew that she was nervous, but he also knew that she was eager as well. Emme was a passionate woman and her passions had been awakened. Still, he understood the value of patience. He led her into his chamber, the room dark and masculine. A bottle of wine and two glasses rested on a table.