Chapter 30

Chapter Thirty

V alentine opened one eye. The room was still, apart from Marissa's gentle breathing as she slept. Any doubts he'd had were gone, laid to rest by the knowledge that he'd made the right choice. For a moment he allowed himself to enjoy the feel and sound of her, as she lay next to him, and to imagine what it would be like in the years ahead, going to bed with her and waking up to her every day and every night.

But there was something he must do first, a dark shadow that could not be allowed to intrude upon his happiness and Marissa's safety any longer.

He rose, stretching, and went to the window, lifting aside the blind to see outside. The yard was in shadow, moonlight barely penetrating beyond the crooked rooftops of neighboring buildings. As he'd expected, no one was about.

Making as little noise as possible he pulled on his clothing, and then sat down to put on his boots. Marissa didn't wake, for which he was grateful. She would argue with him and want to come with him, and he wasn't about to put her into any more danger. Which was why he hadn't told her what he intended.

She'd be angry about that, too, but he'd face her recriminations later. Running his hands through his hair, he went to the door. He glanced over his shoulder one last time, at the shape of Marissa in his bed, and smiled. Who would have thought his life would be transformed so swiftly and so completely by this woman?

Valentine wasn't a violent man, but if violence was necessary to stop Augustus from ruining their future then he would use it. He found his hands had folded into fists, and he opened them, forcing himself to be calm. Tonight he'd end this matter, one way or the other, he told himself, as he closed the door quietly behind him.

The landing was chill, and as he stood a moment getting his bearings, words echoed softly in his head.

"I will steal her, and when I do I will use her until every part of her smells of me. And even if she should live a hundred years and wash a hundred times every day she will never rid herself of my memory. And neither will you, every time you look at her and hold her and kiss her. You will think of me, Valentine."

Remembering made him icy with rage. Normally he thought of himself as a hot-blooded man with a fiery temper when it was roused, but not this time. The anger he felt toward Von Hautt was glacial, and he knew when he got hold of the other man he would find it difficult to control his fury.

The parlor was dimly lit, the fire had burned down to mere coals. He warmed his hands as he waited for the innkeeper to bring him a tankard of ale while his horse was being saddled. They'd made the arrangement last night, out of Marissa and George's hearing, and now it was time.

"Your horse is ready," the man said, entering the parlor, his eyes reddened with lack of sleep and his hair on end.

"Good," Valentine said, taking the ale and gulping it down.

"How is your head, sir?"

He'd forgotten about his head, he'd had far more enjoyable things to think of. "Better, thank you."

"Are you sure you don't want me to send for your brother, so's he can go with you?" he said.

"Quite sure." Valentine noticed he didn't offer to come himself, but even if he had he would have refused the offer. This was something he wanted to do on his own.

The horse's breath was steamy in the damp air, and quickly he mounted and set the animal at a walk out of the stable and into the yard. Water dripped from the roof and ran down his back, and he grimaced, shrugging his shoulders. A light rain was still falling but it wasn't enough to worry him and he set off.

The road from the village to Beauchamp Place was empty and Valentine set his horse at a gallop beneath the night sky. The worst of the rain might be gone but the road gleamed wet and there were numerous puddles, reflecting the moon as it darted behind clouds and peered out at him through the cold mist. Swaths of white hung in the dips and hollows and seemed to spin like webs about the horse's hooves. Valentine rode on.

Soon the dark shape of the manor house loomed to his right, and as he slowed to observe it more carefully he spotted a gleam of lamplight in one of the upstairs windows. Just a brief flicker before it was hidden again. He was there then, his arch enemy; Baron Von Hautt who hated Valentine with all his heart.

It was time to confront him and discover why.

* * *

Marissa opened her eyes and moved in the bed.

At once she felt unfamiliar aches and twinges, as if her body belonged to someone else. And then she remembered. In a way she was someone else. She was Valentine's lover. She had given herself willingly to him and stepped into a new phase of her life.

As she thought of the pleasure they had taken with each other her smile grew. She could hear the deep rumble of his voice in her head: Minx. He'd asked her to marry him. She felt immensely privileged and lucky. Valentine had tried to convince her he was staid and tedious and she'd grow tired of him, but she knew that wasn't how she saw him at all. She had finally realized that it didn't even matter that he was involved in botanical pursuits—surely she could deal with that? She would even join him on his expeditions—she pictured sleeping under the stars in Valentine's arms.

But Marissa had been on too many expeditions with her parents to believe such things were necessarily romantic. Could she really endure journeys to uncomfortable and far-flung places for the sake of being the wife of this admirable man? Marriage would be a fine balance, between pleasing herself and pleasing her husband, but as long as she didn't begin to resent the latter it might work.

When Marissa began her husband hunting she'd imagined finding herself marrying George, but it had all turned out differently. Anyway, she would have been miserable with George. In nearly all ways, Valentine was her perfect mate, and if she refused him then she would be miserable for the rest of her life. She must take that leap . . . or regret it forever.

It was time to say a long and lingering yes.

Reaching out her hand, she expected to touch his warm flesh, and to draw herself closer to him.

He wasn't there.

Her first thought was he must have risen for some reason and would be back soon, but when the moments ticked by and nothing happened, she began to worry. She sat up, pushing her hair out of her eyes and looking about her. The room was empty. Dark and cold and empty. Even his side of the bed felt chilled, as if he'd been gone for a long time.

"Valentine?" she called softly, knowing even as she did so that he wouldn't answer. She would have felt his presence if he was close by, and she did not.

Tossing back the covers, she slid from the bed to the floor, shivering. The blind was slightly disarranged and she went to the window to look through the small, smeared panes.

The yard was empty.

Something was stirring in her, a whisper of fear, and she stilled to listen to it. Where could he be?

Had George sent for him? Or had he gone to George to check how he was doing? It seemed unlikely, and surely he would have said something to her if the explanation was that simple. Instead he'd crept out of the bedchamber, silent as a ghost, not wanting her to wake and . . .

She frowned. Not wanting her to ask questions and perhaps argue with his choices?

Of course!

He'd gone to find Augustus Von Hautt and he didn't want Marissa to come with him.

Feverishly she began to pull on her clothing, the hand-me-down dress over the top of her underwear and stockings. She would need her boots and a cloak or some thick outer garment to keep her warm. And a horse, too. She couldn't follow Valentine without a horse.

He'd gone back to Beauchamp Place, she knew it, the knowledge solid and sure within her. He believed the baron had returned there after they left and he was going to capture him and . . . But what else he meant to do Marissa wasn't sure. That was another reason she really needed to find him and make certain nothing desperate happened between the two of them, more especially to Valentine.

Very worried now, she went to find the chamber belonging to the innkeeper and tapped on the door. She had to knock louder and repeatedly before it was finally opened. The man looked grumpy and didn't try to hide it behind any false politeness.

"I need a horse and a cloak and my boots," she informed him in a firm voice, before he could begin to complain. "Lord Kent has set off alone into danger and he needs me."

He wanted to argue. She could see it in his eyes and his impatient shuffling, but he must have seen something in her face that persuaded him he would be wasting his time. Eventually he shrugged and sent her to the parlor while he dealt with her requests.

Marissa paced back and forth in front of the dying fire, the moments stretching out while she imagined all sorts of horrid things happening to Valentine, but it really wasn't very long before the innkeeper returned with her dried boots and an old musty cloak that swallowed her up, and told her he would be saddling a horse for her with his own hands.

After he'd gone his wife crept into the room, her plump face creased with worry.

"You'll take care now, miss?" she said, eyes anxious beneath the frill on her nightcap. "A young lady like yourself shouldn't be riding alone in the dark, you know."

"I will be careful," Marissa replied, lacing up her boots, "but I must go. I can't sit here and wait and wonder what is happening."

The woman nodded as if she understood. She glanced at the doorway, and then stepped closer and pressed something into Marissa's hands. Her voice was a whisper. "I've had this since we was robbed five year ago. It is clean and working, so don't fear it will explode in your face. If you need to use it, aim a little to the right of your target, as it don't fire exactly straight."

Marissa looked down. She was holding a silver pistol with a pearl handle, small enough to be concealed in her hand. When she looked up questioningly at the woman, she found her blushing.

"A gentleman give it to me," she said, eyes flickering sideways. "My husband don't know, so please don't tell him, miss."

Ah, a lover, perhaps? Someone who'd cared enough about her to ensure her safety? Marissa smiled and reached to touch her hand reassuringly.

"Thank you," she said. "You are very kind. I will only use it if I must, and it will remain a secret between the two of us."

"Well," the woman blushed, "I'm glad. T'ain't every day we get to have a lord stay at the Fox and Hounds."

"Aye, just as well," her husband muttered behind her, making her jump guiltily. "Been run off our feet with all his orders we have."

Marissa slipped the pistol into her pocket, out of sight. The pair of them accompanied her to the stable and watched her ride out into the yard, the horse's hooves clattering loudly on the cobbles. She thanked them again and kicked the beast into a canter, and then a gallop, her borrowed cloak flapping about her.

She remembered the way but even so everything looked different at night. There were odd shadows and shapes, as if what was ordinary by day had suddenly become threatening and extraordinary.

"You're being silly," she told herself firmly, as the miles to her destination shortened. "Valentine needs you. Just keep remembering that. He needs you . . ."

* * *

Valentine had left his horse hidden at the edge of the garden and made his way through narrow paths and overgrown tunnels toward the front door.

He planned to test it first and if it was locked then he would try the back door that led to the servants' stairs. The light was still plainly visible, a soft glow through the broken shutters in one of the upper windows. Possibly Von Hautt didn't realize the lamp was showing or that the shutter was broken, but Valentine thought it more likely that the man was so arrogant he did not consider the necessity for circumspection.

He reached the front door and stood a moment, listening, but there was nothing more than the soft patter of rain and the creaking of the crickets from the garden. Resting his hand on the damp-warped paneling, he gave the door a push. It remained shut. Next he rested his shoulder against the paneling and pushed harder. This time the door moved, slightly, inward, but it was as if something was preventing it from opening fully.

Setting his boots at an angle against the surface of the porch, he gathered his strength and shoved the paneling, hard. This time it moved further but there was a tremendous groaning, grating sound that echoed through the entire house.

Valentine froze.

He knew, with a sense of grim acceptance, that the baron must have heard it. Even if he was sleeping such a hideous noise would wake him at once. His plan to catch his enemy unawares was now impossible. He could abandon it and return to the inn or carry on regardless.

Making up his mind swiftly, he peered through the gap in the door. There was a dresser that had been set against it and had now moved enough to allow him to squeeze in. Valentine paused a moment, holding his breath, but there was no sound or movement from the stairs, and he quickly crept across the entrance to one of the doors and slipped inside, pressing himself to the wall behind it.

Just in time.

The stair treads groaned as someone descended.

Valentine set his eye against the crack in the half-open door. At first he could only see a shadow, but as the figure moved closer he was able to make out Augustus Von Hautt, his gray hair silver in the faint moonlight from the high windows, wearing the same long jacket over his riding clothes. It was only as he turned to look about him that Valentine saw the pistol in his hand.

For what seemed a long time the baron peered into the shadows, rather like a hunting animal seeking its prey, and then he moved toward the rooms on the other side of the hall and began, systematically, to search them.

It would only be a matter of time until he found Valentine.

There was a chance, however, he could get away while the baron was in one of the other rooms. Valentine waited until he was out of sight, and quickly came through the door, meaning to make his way into the shadows farther down the hall. He'd only taken a couple of strides when the worst happened.

"Halt!"

Slowly he turned to face his enemy.

Von Hautt was standing, booted legs apart, the pistol trained on him, a smile on his youthful face. "Ah, Valentine," he said, with deep satisfaction. "I hoped it might be you."

Valentine found himself rigid with tension and he forced his muscles to relax. He needed to get the baron off his guard.

"I saw your footprints in the dust," the baron went on, waving the barrel of his pistol in the direction of the floor. "But I thought it best to play a game with you, let you think you could escape. You are behaving a little like a rat in a trap, Valentine. I had thought better of you. Why did you not call out. Face me man-to-man."

Valentine gestured at the pistol. "For the very reason I see before me now. You are armed, Von Hautt, and I am not. I do not trust you."

Von Hautt looked insulted. "You do not trust me?" he said haughtily. "That is ironic, my friend, considering how your family has treated mine in the past."

Valentine tried to understand what he meant but could not. His bafflement must have been obvious, and it made Von Hautt angry.

"Do not pretend you do not understand!" he shouted. "I know you are well aware of what your father did, and the consequences for me. Do you think I would allow you to escape the punishment you deserve? Do you?"

And he raised the pistol until the barrel was aimed at Valentine's heart, his finger tightening on the trigger. Valentine felt light-headed, and yet he could not run. He could not move. Marissa, he thought, with an ache of longing. The life he'd dreamed of, the happy future he'd imagined with her, would never now come to pass.