Page 68 of The Lady Makes Her Mark

Chapter 22

When Constantia reached the bottom of the stairs, she realized how much more intense the storm had grown. The wind wailed eerily through the anterooms; Alistair must have left the door leading from the cloisters open. But if so, it did not let in any light. All around her was in utter blackness. She wished for the lamp she had left burning upstairs, though she knew it would not have lasted long against these wintry blasts.

Leaving Rylemoor was by far the most difficult choice she had ever made, and the prospect of stepping out into the storm made her all the more reluctant. But if she hesitated, she would lose her nerve. If she hesitated, she would only be making herself, Alistair, and the entire Haythorne family more miserable in the end.

So, she hitched her valise higher on her hip, dragged in a determined breath, and took a step toward the door.

The darkness was disorienting. For a moment, she feared she had turned the wrong way and was walking deeper into the abbey, where the building’s decay posed greater dangers. She groped blindly until her gloved hand encountered cold, damp stone. A wall. The wall that divided the anterooms from the ruined church. If she walked along it, keeping it to her right, it would lead her to the door.

She had taken only a few shuffling steps when she became aware of another sound, barely audible beneath the storm. Scuffling noises. A deeper chill, one not caused by the weather, shuddered through her. Rats.

But rats wouldn’t make that much noise, would they? Some larger animal, then. Something that had been driven to take shelter from the storm. She reminded herself that, whatever sort of creature it was, it was no doubt more reluctant to encounter her in the dark than she was to encounter it.

She found herself probing every step with her toe before setting down her foot, thinking not just of that frightened animal somewhere in the darkness but also the fallen stones and slick spots along her way. If she stumbled and fell, hit her head . . . if Alistair found her injured and carried her to warmth and shelter . . . she knew she would never find the strength to leave again.

Not much farther now. She thought she could detect a slight lessening of the gloom ahead of her, in the arched shape of the doorway. Soon she would be out in the open. In the rain and wind and darkness. Surrounded by treacherous moor.

Nothing a stranger in his right mind—or even out of it—would try to cross this time of year.

No, no, she scolded her fear, driving back the memory of Alistair’s voice and replacing it with her own. I have a plan. Across the courtyard to the drive. Follow the drive back to the main road. Main road to the village. As long as she stayed on the beaten path, she was unlikely to stumble into a bog.

Perhaps the wild creature who had taken shelter in the abbey had the right idea. It was making its way deeper into the building, away from the door. She strained to listen, to pick out the sounds of its approach beneath the noise of the storm. Its shuffling, tentative steps seemed to mirror her own.

And then, from very near, a muffled thump. As if whatever it was had struck a stone with its foot.

Did animals stub their toes?

Well, if so, they surely didn’t mutter oaths afterward.

Constantia’s scream strangled in her throat when the creature—a man—reached out and grabbed her. He was speaking to her, she thought, but the blood pounding between her ears made such a roar that she couldn’t pick out the words. His grip was implacable, trapping the arm in which she held her valise so she could not use it as a weapon. Her other wrist was still too weak for her to defend herself with it. And if she tried to kick him, she was as likely to strike stone and break her foot instead.

He was saying the same thing over and over in a gravelly voice, and it sounded very much like “At last, at last.” After all these years of hiding and running, to be found out here? To lose the battle for her freedom in the one place she so desperately did not want to leave? No, she had to fight, had to get away from this craggy-faced mountain of a man, had to—why could she see his features now? Was the storm lessening? Where did the light come from?

Then, like a vision, Alistair appeared, lamp in one hand and jagged stone in the other, arms raised high, his expression fierce and bloodthirsty, ready to knock her assailant’s brains from his head.

Relief poured into her. She was safe. He had saved her. Again. And that knowledge gave her the strength to cry out, “Wait!”

A half second too late, perhaps. But Alistair hesitated, and the shift in momentum made the blow more glancing than it otherwise would have been. Her assailant’s eyes grew wide with surprise just before he tumbled to the floor, nearly pulling her down with him.

Alistair snatched her up before she hit the ground and gathered her to his chest. The lamp fell from his hand, struck stone, and guttered, leaving them in darkness again. “Constantia!” His hands raced over her head, her back. The valise slipped from her numb fingers and landed beside her with a thud. “Are you harmed? Did he hurt you? Good God! Why did you tell me to wait?” he murmured against her hair, and she could feel his mouth tremble. “When I saw the fear in your face, I wanted to kill him.”

“I know. I know you did. But first, I want answers. I want to know who he is.” She tipped her head back to look up, though Alistair’s features were nothing more than a pale blur against the dark. “I want to know why.”

A groan from the floor near their feet made it clear that the man was not dead. “We may not have much time before he rouses,” Alistair said, setting her back on her heels. “Can you fetch a candle?” She heard the whisper of cloth. “I’ll tie his hands.”

Once more, she felt along the damp wall to the staircase and hurried up. Thanks to the windows, the darkness in the studio was not absolute. With icy, fumbling fingers she found and lit a candle, and by its unsteady glow, she returned to Alistair, who was kneeling beside their prisoner and had secured the man’s wrists with his cravat.

“I don’t know how long that will last,” he said, looking up at her. “We need help.” She thought of the handful of servants, mostly young women, and the elderly butler, Mr. Wellend. “Go to the drawing room. Fetch Forster.”

“The curate?”

“Hurry.”

She did as she had been bid, though her head was filled with doubts. Though she’d only met him that evening, and briefly, he had struck her as rather too gentle and studious to provide much assistance in such a matter. He was young, yes, but . . . well, rather doughy.

When she burst into the drawing room, her eyes were momentarily dazzled by the blaze of light. Her mind struggled to make sense of the discovery that almost everyone was still assembled, chatting and drinking and admiring the portrait of Alistair, oblivious to what had occurred.

“Mr. Forster,” she blurted out, heedless of the rector’s wife’s gasp or Lady Posenby’s gimlet-eyed stare. “Please come. We need your help. Lord Ryland has apprehended an intruder, and the man is built like a mountain.”