The Hollow Crown: A Novel of Crosspointe (22 page)

She thought of Nicholas, her brow furrowing. He truly seemed to fear for her safety. It was inexplicable. What could he benefit from such a pretense?

Unless it wasn’t pretense
.

Margaret swallowed a groan at the skip of hope her heart made. No. Absolutely not. She could not be attracted to him; she could not let herself be so stupid. But still
. . .
he
was
strangely solicitous and the expression in his eyes when he looked at her was hungry.

But then again, he was a master liar. Just like she was.

She pushed all thoughts of Nicholas out of her mind. She couldn’t afford to maunder. She needed all her attention to find Carston.

Crouching down, she scuttled through the limp, scrubby grass to the wall of the outer garden. Without stopping, she leaped smoothly up onto the top of the stone wall. The lattice was lodged firmly in place and did not wobble. She shimmied over it and dropped down into the garden, crouching low in the shadows. She eased out of the bed, the smell of rosemary and tarragon rising around her. She followed the path through the herb garden to the gate on the other side. It was open a few inches. She nudged it wider and peered through. She faced a crushed- rock walkway. Ahead was another garden and to the left was a path leading out into the grounds.

She opted to go through to the next garden enclosure. It was lush, green, and vibrant. The beds were raised up off the ground, and though the path was squelchy, the drenching rains had been able to drain out of the beds instead of drowning the plants. Pumpkin vines spilled across the path, intertwined with cucumbers and melons. She picked through them, careful not to step on any leaves.

The gate on the other side opened up onto a small circular lawn bordered by a two- foot hedge and hemming a bronze Chayos, her long hair lifting in a rising wind. Her bottom half melded into the trunk of a tree, its roots knobby and thick as they snaked in a circle through a menagerie of animals. Tall stems of flowering plants spilled water into the copper basin below. Benches ringed the tiled circle surrounding the fountain.

Margaret eased out of the gate and froze in place as voices floated through the air. There was a giggle and a quick female patter followed by a slower male voice. Margaret couldn’t make out the words, but the couple was moving farther away. She slipped across the lawn, hunching down beside the statue before moving across to crouch in the shadows of the hedge. Now all that lay between her and the house was a tide of yellowing lawn. The lights of the manor were brilliantly lit and there was music playing somewhere.

She ran across the grass to press herself into a crease where a tower jutted from the main wall. She didn’t wait to see if anyone had seen her, but jogged left around the tower and into a notch between wings. It was dark here and no windows looked out on this wall. The stone was roughly hewn and gave enough finger- and footholds to climb. She started up just as fat drops of rain began to pop against the wall. She rolled her eyes. Just what she needed.

She went slowly and carefully, firming her grip before risking her weight on the hold. Halfway up she slipped. She had her feet braced wide on the corner lip of the wall and for a moment she swayed, thirty feet above the ground. She threw her weight forward and scrabbled for handholds, legs shaking with the strain of holding herself up. She found a new grip and breathed a sigh of relief between gritted teeth and started up again.

She clambered onto the slate roof, her heart thudding as she rolled onto her back. She flexed her cramped fingers and breathed deeply. But there was no time for rest. She rolled up onto her feet. The servants’ quarters were at the top of the house and most of them would be downstairs working. Many had left their windows open for the fresh air.

Margaret walked across the roof. The rain was coming down harder, making the slate slippery. She skidded and slid, landing on her side and grabbing a chimney pot to keep from sliding off the edge of the roof. She pulled herself back up and finished her journey with no more incidents.

She crouched beside a dormer window. The shutters were open wide. Margaret peered inside. There were four beds spaced around the walls. Three were neatly made and the last one was beneath the window and was unmade. Margaret slid inside. She rubbed her feet clean on the sheets and then dropped to the floor. She folded the coverlet up and tucked in the bed, hiding her mess. With any luck, its owner would think it was a practical joke by one of her fellow maids.

Margaret went to the door and eased it open. Now was the hard part. She had to find a place to hide for a few glasses until the house went to bed for the night. Then she would try to locate Carston. She planned to return to Nicholas and Keros before the house stirred to life again.

She went out into the corridor and made her way to a narrow stair. These passages were austere, designed only for servants. There was nowhere to hide except inside the rooms behind the plain doors. Margaret hurried as fast as she dared. She wanted to get down to the first floor, and below, into the kitchen level. Carston would be hidden there somewhere, she was sure. The upper levels were too public. The regent would keep him underground where there were no windows to allow an easy escape or rescue. It would also keep too many servants from becoming aware of the boy.

She passed two floors of guest rooms and reached the family floor with only two encounters. The first time she was able to run back up the stairs until the two maids passed. The second time she was trapped. She started through one of the doors, twisting the knob, then heard voices on the other side. A pair of footmen were coming up the stairs and another opened a door farther ahead. Margaret didn’t hesitate. She ran down the corridor and slid in behind the opening door, sliding a stiletto free as she did. The footman stepped out and shut the door with his foot. He held a tray of dishes, which he set on a sideboard. He stopped to adjust his cuffs and dab at his vest with a napkin, muttering a curse as he did.

Margaret chewed her lip. So far he hadn’t seen her, but in less than a minute, the footmen on the stairs would appear and she’d be caught. That left her no time.

She stepped up behind the griping footman. He was tall with broad shoulders. Perfect. She slipped around in front of him, grasping his waistband and digging her knife sharply into his cods.

“If you ever want to enjoy another woman again, you will do what I say,” she whispered. “Understand?”

His face was pale and he nodded.

“Come with me.” She pulled on him, stepping back until they fetched up against the wall. She pressed herself into the corner and pulled him after her. “Now kiss me.”

His eyes widened and lips dropped open.

“Now,” she said, pushing her knife harder into his groin. The other footmen had stepped out onto the landing. “Be convincing or I’ll cut your prick off.”

He hesitated only a moment, then obeyed. He bent, his mouth pressing against hers, his arms coming up to circle her stiffly. She couldn’t have that. She needed this to look natural. She opened her mouth and licked her tongue against his lips. He started, and then pressed closer, his tongue tangling with hers. Men were so easy. He moaned as she sucked gently and slanted his head, deepening the kiss. Margaret rolled her eyes. He seemed to have totally forgotten her knife against his prick. He ran a hand down over her breast and squeezed. She made a loud sound of pleasure and he responded with a low growl.

Behind him she heard silence and then a chuckling. “Look at Davey. Who’s he got there?”

“He’s about to roast her on his stick. Maybe he’ll give us a taste.”

Davey’s back stiffened and he started to pull away. Margaret held him and wriggled, pressing her breasts against his chest. He forgot their audience as his lust ignited again. He kissed her, harder this time.

Under other circumstances, Margaret would have enjoyed his attentions. He knew what he was doing and a tumble in bed with him would have been more than enjoyable. And it would help put all distracting thoughts of Nicholas from her mind. But she was on business. She heard the other men tromp up the stairs, leaving her alone with her companion. Gently she pushed Davey back. He stared down at her. He was handsome, with a cleft chin and lovely green eyes. He brushed a hair from her forehead.

“You don’t belong here,” he said, then glanced down at the knife still prodding his cods, then back up at her. “I’d have kissed you without such encouragement,” he said with a grin.

“I can’t let you give the alarm,” she said. She should kill him.

“I wouldn’t be able to if I was busy, say, with you.” He lifted his brows and bent, kissing her again.

Margaret smiled beneath his lips. He was brash and arrogant. She liked that. And his suggestion held certain charm. She could pass the time with him until the house was quiet enough to explore. He might be just what she needed to cure herself of her attraction for Nicholas Weverton.

“Where do you suggest we spend our evening together?” she asked seductively.

“There are empty guest rooms. We wouldn’t be disturbed.”

“Someone would miss you.”

He shrugged. “I’ll think of an excuse.” He kissed her again and pulled away. “I would very much like it if you eased up on that knife. I’ve got a bit of swelling down there.”

She hesitated. It was a risk. But an empty guest room was a good place to hide. She could tie him up and leave him there, and he wouldn’t soon be found. Then she wouldn’t have to kill him. She slid the knife into her waistband. “Lead the way.”

He grinned more broadly and grasped her hand. They went up a flight and then wound through the crisscrossing corridors. At last they ended up on the south side of the house. He stopped two doors from the end, turned the knob, and eased the door open, peering inside. He pulled her within and shut the door. Instantly he drew her close and began kissing her, his hands fisting in the back of her shirt. He rubbed his hips into hers. His eagerness was catching. Margaret pushed off his coat and pulled at the buttons of his vest. In moments his chest was bare. She rubbed her fingers over his skin, delighting in its smooth warmth. He groaned and tugged at her clothing, then swung her up impatiently and carried her to the tall four-poster bed.

They passed the next few hours in delightful activity. Davey was both enthusiastic and energetic. Margaret did not think about Ellyn, Keros, her brothers, or her mission inside the house. Nicholas crept into her thoughts a time or two, and each time she banished his image with firm determination.

Davey had fallen into a deeply contented sleep and Margaret lay curled beside him. By her estimate, it was close to midnight. She should begin her search. She eased out of the bed and cut strips of cloth from the sheets. She braided them together into sturdy ropes, then tied Davey hand and foot without waking him. It wouldn’t hold him forever, but long enough. It took her but a few minutes more to dress. She eyed his livery, then shook her head. If she needed a disguise, she’d steal one later.

She was on the first guest floor. Below was the family rooms and on the first two floors were the entertaining rooms.
Sylveth
lamps lit the corridor with a soft glow, brightening as she moved past them, their majick working as if nothing was wrong. She went quickly, careful not to make any noise. There was no one in the halls. She passed a billiard room where a man stood over a woman who lay seductively on the table, her skirts bunched around her waist.

She slid past the arched door opening and went through a long gallery. It overlooked a large ballroom. The scent of the night’s dinner permeated the air and made Margaret’s stomach grumble. She paused at the top of the sweeping stairway. It was the fastest way down, but footmen stood inside the front doors. She couldn’t get past them unnoticed.

She retreated, going back through the gallery and threading her way round to the rear of the ballroom. It ran the length of the manor, dividing the great house in half. Below it were the kitchens and various food cellars, and on the sides were offices, salons, sitting rooms, and small intimate dining rooms. Margaret chanced entering the servants’ passages again and dropped down to the first floor.

She came down onto the landing at the same moment a yawning scullery maid rounded the corner. The curly-headed girl stopped short, her eyes springing wide. Her mouth opened and Margaret leaped to clamp a hand over the emerging scream. She spun the girl and held her tight against her chest. She flipped free a poison needle in a ring and started to drag it across the maid’s neck. She stopped suddenly, feeling the girl’s chest rising and falling rapidly. The girl was innocent—a maid. One of the people she was supposed to protect.
She’s working for the wick-sucking regent!
But a maid still must feed her family and buy her clothes, and that meant working for whoever would pay her.

Margaret flipped the needle back into the ring and then pulled her dagger and cracked the girl across the back of the head. The maid slumped to the ground.

Margaret hooked the maid’s body beneath her arms and dragged her to the closet beneath the stair. She pushed aside the buckets, brooms, and mops and pulled the body inside. She found a pile of rags and used them to bind and gag the girl. She stood, considering the closet critically. It was clearly used frequently. She did not want the girl to be found too soon. Margaret grabbed three mops and pushed their butt ends against the bottom of the shelving on the far wall. Pulling the door around, she squatted and reached through the opening to settle the damp heads against the back of the door. She pulled her arm out and snicked the latch closed. The mops dropped down to the floor with a thump. She turned the handle and pushed. They didn’t budge. That would buy a little time. Eventually the girl would wake up and find a way to make a racket that would bring rescuers. Hopefully not too soon.

She shook her head. She was going soft. She should have left neither Davey nor the girl. Both were expendable. The future of Crosspointe was at stake. For a moment she hesitated, then shook her head. It was too late now.