For All Eternity Page 13

  For the tenth time that hour, Sophie thanked God that her bedmate had been off with her suitor when she’d packed her bag and stolen away. Not only had the girl’s absence freed her from explanation, it had saved her heaven only knew how much time.

  And time was of an essence. So much so, that she’d let her sense of self-preservation overrule her vanity, and had fled the house garbed in her soiled work clothes. Had she paused to make herself presentable, she’d most probably be locked in the cellar now, waiting for Lyndhurst to drag her to London and justice.

  Sophie grimaced as she glanced down at her stained and rumpled skirt. Ah, well. So what if she looked like a slattern? At least she was free. If all went as she hoped, she would stay that way. She had only to find a ride to Exeter before his tyrannical lordship finished browbeating the servants. Then —

  Thudity-thud! Thudity-thud! She froze, instantly recognizing the low rolling rumble.

  Hoofbeat … distant hoofbeat on packed soil …

  Thudity-thud! Thudity-thud! It trembled through the soles of her thin walking shoes, the vibrations growing stronger…

  And stronger… and —

  Lyndhurst! She gasped and dropped her valise. What if it was Lyndhurst, hunting her like a blood-frenzied hound? Oh! Oh! She had to hide! Hide, yes. But where?

  Wildly she looked around her, her gaze bouncing over the low stone walls and through the starlit mists enveloping the rural realm beyond. To her left lay a wheat field, the tall, moon-blanched grain swaying gently from … what? Not so much as a whisper of wind stirred the air. Not even daring to imagine what lurked between those stalks, she shifted her gaze to her right.

  Blast! Just her wretched luck. It was a pasture; a particularly flat and open one, enclosed on one side by a hedgerow. She moaned her despair. Doomed. She was doomed to spend the rest of her life rotting away in prison, forsaken and forgotten. Unless —

  Her eyes narrowed as she studied the breaks in the hedgerow. Perhaps if she crawled into the thicket and stayed perfectly still, Lyndhurst would ride on by. Then she would be safe …

  Well, at least safe from Lyndhurst. Sophie shuddered at the thought of what might live in that thicket: hedgerow bogles, deadly little monstrosities with a poisonous bite and a hunger for human flesh. Lydia’s brother had told her all about them.

  She swallowed hard, though her mouth was as dry as week-old cake, and glanced over the wall. The shadows back there looked deep. Perhaps if she crouched —

  A circle of light appeared in the distance, one that grew larger and brighter with every passing second.

  Double blast! The despicable man carried a lantern. So much for hiding in the shadows. As tall as Lyndhurst sat in the saddle, the light would spill over the wall and onto her. He’d see her at first glance.

  That left her with only one place to hide: the hedgerow. And a choice between two evils: bogles or Lyndhurst. It took but a second for her to decide.

  Over the wall she tumbled, landing in the tall, damp grass on her hands and knees. Pressing as close to the ground as she could, she more slithered than crawled toward the hedgerow. She was almost there when … yes, it was Lyndhurst … thundered down the road. Praying he’d pass without a glance, she dropped to her belly and lay still.

  Ride on. Please ride on without looking this way, she willed, helplessly watching the lamplight pour over the wall and flow nearer. Please … please … please. She screwed her eyes shut, absurdly hoping that by blanking him from her sight she would somehow render herself invisible.

  “Oh-ho!” Jingle! — A soft nicker, and the hoofbeats ceased.

  Dear heavens! Had he seen her? Convulsively, she dug her fingers into the earth, her heart landing in the pit of her stomach with a sickening jolt. Of course he had. Why else would he stop? Any minute now he would jerk her up and carry her off to prison.

  And there wasn’t a bloody thing she could do to stop him.

  For what felt like a millennium she remained frozen, waiting for her world to come to an end. Waiting …

  And waiting…

  And waiting. When she could stand the suspense no longer, she opened one eye and lifted her head to see what was happening.

  To her bewilderment, he simply sat atop his mammoth stallion, peering at something in the road. As she watched, he leaned over and lowered the lantern to examine that something closer.

  Whatever could be find so interesting? she wondered, unnerved by his intense scrutiny. Footprints, perhaps?

  In a swirl of shoulder capes, he was off his horse. So agile, so very fluid was his dismount that it was nothing short of poetic.

  Sophie’s other eye popped open in her surprise. Had he always moved with such eloquence? Her brow creased as she tried to recall. Come to think of it, she’d never bothered to note the manner in which he moved. Indeed, why would she? His very size marked him as clumsy, and thus not worth observing.

  But I was wrong, she grudgingly admitted, watching as he soothed his restless steed. He moves quite well for a giant.

  In truth, he moved better than well. His sleek, supple athleticism was as beautiful as it was unexpected. Not, of course, that you’d ever hear her say so. She’d die before she uttered a single word of praise about —

  Abruptly he dropped down and disappeared behind the stone wall. Her frown deepened, as did her bewilderment. Whatever was he doing now? Sniffing her scent like a bloodhound?

  Rather than ponder the question, Sophie took advantage of his distraction and scurried toward the hedge. She had just reached her destination and was about to crawl into the hole, when she heard a heavy scraping sound behind her. Gasping her alarm, she jerked her head around.

  Lyndhurst stood in the center of the road, stuffing a wad of cloth into a lumpy piece of luggage.

  Sophie sagged with relief. He’d just been picking up her valise. He —

  Her valise! Good heavens. She’d forgotten all about it. Her alarm returned in a heart-faltering rush as she gaped at the bag in his hands. By the way it hung open, with bits of lace and ribbon tumbling out, it was clear that he’d rifled through the contents. No doubt he’d recognized the initials engraved on her silver hairbrush and now knew that she was near.

  As if to confirm her frightening deduction, Lyndhurst called her name. He sounded furious. Praying for a chance, any at all to slip into the hedge unnoticed, Sophie rolled into a tight ball, making herself as small as possible.

  Again he called her name, then again. Lifting the lantern to widen the circle of light, he stalked toward the wall … the one she was behind, naturally. Without breaking his stride, he dropped her valise at the edge of the road, then lifted one long leg and easily vaulted the low barrier.

  Nearer and nearer he moved, the warm flood of light broadening with every step he took. When he was but a few yards from where she huddled, he stopped and demanded, “I shall give you to the count of three to cease this foolish game and reveal yourself, Miss Barrington. If you fail to comply, I shall be forced to — “

  Rustle! Rustle! The sound came from behind him. He whirled around, sweeping the lantern in a broad arch.

  Aha! Her prayed-for chance. Feetfirst. Yes. She’d go into the hedge feetfirst so she could kick the bogles should they attack. Careful, so as not to stir the branches, she eased her legs in.

  Nothing attacked. She sighed her relief. It appeared that she’d chosen a bogle-free bush. That fear thus allayed, she slipped in farther. Now she had only to brace her hands just so to propel herself the rest of the way in. Casting an anxious look to where Lyndhurst stood scowling at a hare, the perpetrator of the rustling, she slipped her left hand beneath the small of her back. Lifting her right one, she moved it over …

  And over …

  And down …

  Onto something distinctly alive. Before she could think, much less react, what felt like a hundred tiny teeth sank into her hand.

  A bogle! She screamed with all her might, her cries echoed by squeal after unearthly squeal as the beast bit he
r again and again.

  Crash! Lyndhurst dropped the lantern.

  “Sophie?” He was on her in a flash, dragging her from the hedge and hauling her to her feet. When she instantly collapsed again, too overwrought to stand, he grasped her arms in a bruising grip and gave her a firm shake. “Good God, woman! Will you cease that infernal yowling and tell me what happened?”

  “A bogle!” she wailed. “I was bitten by a bogle!” There was a pause, as if he were stunned by her dreadful revelation, then he sputtered, “A … bogle?” “Yes. Yes!” She nodded wildly, her frantic gaze searching the shadows at their feet for the deadly creature. “One of the poisonous, flesh-eating kind that lives in hedgerows. And it bit me. O-o-h! I’m doomed — doomed for certain.” That last line was uttered on an escalating moan.

  As she stood paralyzed by terror, certain that she was only seconds away from death, Lyndhurst expelled a volcanic gasp, followed by a smothered wheeze. Dropping his hands from her arms to clutch at his chest, he burst out —

  Laughing?

  Her jaw dropped in shock. Why — why —

  “A p-poisonous, flesh-eating, hedgerow b-bogle,” he howled with hilarity, clenching his ribs as if they ached.

  Her shock exploded into outrage. “I don’t see anything the least bit amusing about this!” she hissed, glaring up at him.

  “A bogle bit you, you say?” He erupted into another explosive series of guffaws. Though the shadows from the hedgerow shrouded his features, his teeth flashed white in the moonlight.

  “Yes,” she snapped, ignoring the fact that those teeth were perfect. “Are you as deaf as you are boorish? Or just witless?”

  “Neither,” he gasped between chuckles. “Just amused that a chit your age still believes in fairy tales. Hasn’t anyone told you that there are no such things as bogles … or pixies … or trolls?”

  “Oh?” She braced her hands on her hips, eyeing him with violent dislike. “And if there are no such things as bogles, then what, pray tell, attacked me? I can assure you most heartily that it wasn’t a badger or a hare.” Another flash of annoyingly straight teeth. “Why don’t we look and find out?” Still laughing, Lyndhurst strode over and retrieved the extinguished lantern. After relighting it, he returned to the site of the alleged bogle attack.

  “Shall we?” He indicated the hedge with a sweep of his hand. Without awaiting her reply, he began sifting through the shrubbery, pausing now and again to shine the light through its branches.

  Still unconvinced as to the mythical nature of bogles, Sophie hung back, watching from what she prayed was a safe distance.

  After several moments during which he searched the thicket from top to bottom, he dropped to his knees, crowing, “Aha!” Setting the lantern on the ground next to him, he examined something — what, she couldn’t see — then softly commanded, “Come and take a look at your bogle, Miss Barrington.”

  “What is it?” she asked, reluctant to move nearer. What if it truly was a bogle? Or something just as bad, like a snake or a bat?

  He made an impatient noise. “I already told you, your bogle.”

  “But you said — “

  “I said that you are to come here,” he interjected brusquely. “Need I remind you that you are a servant to the Somerville family, and thus subject to my commands? If you wish to keep your position, I suggest that you obey me posthaste.”

  Keep her position? Sophie’s jaw dropped as she gaped at him, utterly taken aback. Her belief in bogles aside, did he think her a complete ninny? Keep her position indeed! No doubt his words were a ruse to lure her back to the manor so he could lock her up and send her back to London in chains.

  “Sophie?” His irritation was unmistakable.

  Squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin, she retorted, “No, I shan’t obey you. Why should I? I know perfectly well that you despise me, and that you have no intention of letting me remain at Hawksbury. Contrary to your belief, I’m not an utter goose.”

  Slowly he rose to his feet, straightening to the uppermost inch of his lofty, and admittedly alarming, height. “Indeed?”

  “Indeed,” she countered with a sniff. “And I understand with absolute clarity why you hunted me down.”

  “Oh? Well, then, pray do tell.”

  “For revenge, of course. You despise me and wish revenge for the way I disgraced you in front of the ton. You intend to soothe your pride and even the score by hauling me off to prison.”

  He acknowledged her response with a curt nod. “You are correct on two counts, Miss Barrington: I do despise you. And yes, I most definitely desire revenge. You are, however, incorrect as to the mode in which I wish to exact it.”

  She frowned, taken aback by that last. “Are you saying that you shan’t drag me back to Town and turn me over to my creditors?”

  “That, my dear, is entirely up to you,” he replied, stalking toward her.

  There was something ominous about the low, purring timbre of his voice, something that sent icy chills up her spine. And when he stopped before her, his eyes glittering in the shadowed murk of his face, it was all she could do not to step away.

  Firmly commanding her feet to stay put, she forced her gaze to meet his. “Oh? And exactly what do you mean when you say that it is up to me?” Was that really her voice, so thin and hoarse?

  “I mean that you have a choice.”

  “A … choice?”

  “Yes. A choice.” He inched his face nearer to hers. “You can remain in service at Hawksbury, doing as I command for however long I say, after which time you shall be free to go where you wish. Or I can take you to King’s Bench Prison in the morning.” His face was so close now, she could see his grim expression … and his scar.

  Unnerved by both, she ducked her head and shied back a step. “I-If you despise me, w-why do you want me at Hawksbury? I should th-think that you would wish me far from your s-sight,” she stammered, hating her voice for faltering so.

  There was a tense moment of silence, then he grasped her chin and jerked her face to his again. “Maybe I wish you near so I can torment you with the hideous spectacle of my face,” he snarled.

  Sophie gasped, shocked to be confronted with her own careless words. How vicious they sounded echoing from his lips, how very cruel she was to have voiced them in the first place.

  He snorted and released her chin. “Ah, yes, my dear Miss Barrington. I know all about your horror of my face. How could I not? It’s all the talk of the ton. That, and your complaint of my arrogance. Oh, and let us not forget the prime gossip regarding my soporific dullness and my grotesque size.”

  Sophie bowed her head again, this time from shame rather than to escape the sight of his scar. Not knowing what to say, but compelled to say something, she murmured, “Lyndhurst — “

  He cut her off with another snort. “Please don’t misunderstand me. I’m not asking you to deny your words, nor do I wish to hear that you’ve had a change of heart. Indeed, what is the opinion of an ill-bred little goosecap to me? Nothing!” He more spat than said the last word.

  “Ill-bred?” Sophie tossed aside her guilt to embrace her affront. “I may be a goosecap at times, but I am most certainly not ill-bred. Lest you’ve forgotten, my mother was the daughter of an earl.”

  “And your father was a common cloth merchant,” he sneered.

  “There was nothing whatsoever common about my father,” she shot back, her foot itching to kick him. “He was the noblest, handsomest, most genteel man in all of England. Everyone who knew him says so!”

  He made a derisive noise. “If what you say is indeed true, then how did he come to spawn such a vulgar daughter? One can only assume that — “

  Wham — th-whap! Her foot relieved its itch against his shin.

  “O-w-w! What the — “

  “How dare you!” she hissed. “How dare you utter such wretched lies. I am not vulgar, and you know it.” When she made to kick him again, he grabbed her arms and hauled her body against his, trapping her fla
iling foot between his legs as he did so.

  Pinning her struggling form firmly against his unyielding one, he gritted out, “Oh? And what would you call a chit who goes to a man’s bachelor quarters and begs him to wed her?”

  Sophie froze amid pounding his chest, stunned by her pain at his reminder of Julian and his betrayal. Slowly the fight seeped from her body. “I would call that poor chit a girl in love,” she whispered, “one too innocent to know the false nature of men.”

  “And I would call her vulgar for acting upon her love in the manner of a whore desperate for a keeper,” he flung back.

  “Why … why…” Her fight returned with her anger. “Why, you low-minded cur! It wasn’t like that at all. Lord Oxley led me to believe that he loved and wanted to marry me. I was simply following my heart when I went to him.” She tipped her head back and fixed him with a look of utter contempt. “Not, of course, that I expect you to understand the purity of what I felt for him. I doubt you’ve ever felt anything for another person save disdain and a smug sense of superiority.”

  For a long moment his gleaming gaze bore into hers, then he ejected a scornful noise and looked away. “You haven’t a damn clue as to what I or anyone else feels. You’re far too vain and selfish to notice anything or anyone else, unless, of course, you see some personal benefit in doing so. Even then — “

  “Why you — “

  “Enough!” So forceful and decisive was his command, that she instantly obeyed. “I have no intention of standing here all night arguing with you, Miss Barrington. Just make your damn choice and be done with it.”

  Though Sophie had thought to choose Hawksbury, she was no longer convinced that it would be the better choice. Not after what had just passed between them. That he preferred his own brand of punishment to that which she’d receive in prison spoke volumes of the horrors he had planned for her should she remain. With growing alarm, she wondered if Hawksbury had a torture chamber.

  “Well, Miss Barrington?” His grip tightened on her arms as if he expected her to bolt.

  With visions of racks and iron maidens dancing in her mind, she croaked, “How can I make a decision when you have yet to tell me what I shall suffer should I remain? Whatever it is, it must be very terrible for you to consider it worse than imprisonment.”