Chapter Forty-Eight

T he first strains of birdsong heralded the dawn. By the time Bella followed Millie outside, creeping through the back door like a thief, the chorus was in full swing—male birds claiming their territory, calling to their females.

At Brackens Hill, she’d come to savor the dawn, surrounded by the songs of nature, when she could pause in her chores and take a moment to herself. At first, she’d loathed having to rise when it was dark and cold outside, to lay the fire or prepare breakfast. But the rituals of life as a laborer’s wife had given her purpose and fulfilment.

“Bella! Come quick!” Millie’s voice returned her to the present, and they crossed the courtyard, where a young man waited beside a cart fixed to a sturdy-looking brown pony. “Is everything ready, Luke?”

“Aye, Miss Millie,” he replied, in a voice Bella recognized. “Bessie’s not too quick, but she’s a steady girl as long as you’re firm on the reins. She’ll see you safely to Ancombe.”

“You’re a treasure,” Millie said. “Your sweetheart—Sara, isn’t it?—is a lucky lass.”

“Oh no, Miss Millie, I’m the lucky one. Will you be wantin’ me to accompany you? It’s a long way to Ancombe for a woman on her own in the dark.”

“It’ll be light soon,” Millie said. “And I’m not alone—it’s my friend wanting to get to Ancombe.”

The young man frowned as he glanced at Bella, then his eyes widened.

“Bleedin’ hell—it’s Lady Arabella!”

“You’re Connie’s brother,” Bella said.

“Aye,” he replied. “Went to a lot of trouble for you, my sister did. You should be halfway across the county by now—I don’t want you causing trouble for Connie.”

“The horse bolted and threw me,” Bella said. “And the last thing I want is to cause trouble for your sister. I intend to send for her as soon as I’ve reached London.”

“Why, because you cannot survive without a maid?”

“No!” Bella replied. “I’m fond of Connie and cannot bear the thought of her suffering as a result of my flight.”

“For pity’s sake, Luke, don’t be an arse,” Millie said. “Help Bella up, then get your skinny hide back inside before you wake the whole village. Mind you say nothin’, or I’ll cut your bollocks off.”

The lad let out a huff.

Bella held out her hand. “Your loyalty to your sister does you credit, Luke,” she said. “You have my word that I’ll do everything I can to ensure her safety. Tell her this when you next see her.”

The lad stared at her hand, his eyes widening. Then he took it and nodded. “Perhaps what Connie said about you was true.”

“Which was?”

Even in the low light of the dawn, Bella could see he was blushing.

“Did she perhaps say that the spoiled Lady Arabella has mellowed into a woman with the potential to be a little less disagreeable?” she suggested.

The lad hesitated, and Millie slapped him on the arm. “Stop your gawking, you fool. We need to get going.”

“Right you are, Miss Millie.”

The boy helped Bella onto the cart, and Millie followed. “Remember, Luke, not a word if you value your balls.”

“You can trust me, Miss Millie. My Sara would chew my balls off herself if she knew I’d let you down.” The boy touched his cap and nodded to Bella. “I wish you well, your ladyship.”

Millie grasped the reins, then issued a soft command, and the horse set off. She steered the cart across the courtyard, and Bella winced at the clatter of hooves. But other than a boy scurrying along the street carrying a basket, the world had yet to wake.

*

Bella relaxed into her seat, lulled by the motion of the cart. This time tomorrow she’d be safely on the London coach—perhaps even under Mr. Stockton’s protection.

The road led through a forest, but the sun, which had long since conquered the dawn mist, filtered through the trees. Bella tipped her face upward, relishing the birdsong in the air, together with the distant rush of water from the nearby river.

“Look!” Millie cried.

Bella opened her eyes. The cart rounded a bend in the road and the forest thinned out to open country. On the horizon was a line of trees, above which rose a square tower with battlements.

“That’s the church at Ancombe Mills.”

“It looks more like a castle,” Bella said.

“It dates back to the Norman conquest.”

“How do you know…” Bella began, but trailed away with shame.

“How can I know history, seein’ as I’m a whore?”

“Forgive me, I didn’t…”

Millie laughed good-naturedly. “I’m fond of history, and like nothing better of an evening than to tuck myself into a chair with a book. Don’t believe everything you see at first glance, Bella. You have to look closer. The painted peacock who earns her keep giving pleasure to lonely men is nothing like the woman inside. Just like Lady Arabella is nothing like Bella . We women must disguise our true selves to survive in a world ruled by men.”

“Then I thank you for honoring me with your true self, Millie,” Bella said. “It’s a mark of true friendship—and I can think of no one better as a friend.”

“Lawrence is a fool for lettin’ you go,” Millie said.

She resumed her attention on the road, and Bella watched the tower loom higher as they drew near.

Safe at last.

The clip-clop of the horse’s hooves was joined by another, heavier tread from behind.

Millie glanced over her shoulder. “That’ll be the mail coach from Midchester.”

The air vibrated with the beating of hooves, and Bella’s stomach twitched with apprehension.

“Steady, Bessie girl!” Millie said as the pony tossed its head from side to side. She steered the cart to the edge of the road and stopped. “Someone’s in a hurry. We’ll let them pass.”

Four horses emerged from the bend, pulling a carriage that swayed from side to side. Bella winced as she heard the crack of a whip.

“That’s not the mail coach,” Millie said.

Bella’s gaze settled on the coachman. His livery was red, and though it was too far away to notice any detail, she caught a gleam of gold.

It can’t be…

“Dunton…” Bella’s throat constricted with fear. “Dear God, he’s found me!”

“Run!” Millie cried.

Bella glanced at the coach bearing down on them, then she leaped off the cart and ran along the road.

“No!” Millie screamed. “Get off the road—head for the river!”

Bella slipped between the trees at the side of the road. The ground sloped away, plunging down a bank toward a roaring, raging torrent of water. She caught her breath as a surge of fear gripped her, paralyzing her with the memory of bitter cold that stabbed at her flesh like a thousand knives. A face swam into her vision—a ruddy, fleshy face, watching her through the bushes, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. She opened her mouth, fighting for breath, willing her body to scream, while icy fingers clawed at her legs, pulling her down in a spiral, sending her into hell…

“No!”

She raised her hands to cover her ears, but the roaring ripped through her senses. She retreated and collided with a solid form.

“At last!” a familiar voice cried. “I have you, my dear.”

Her vision cleared and she caught sight of a familiar face.

Dunton.

The same face that had watched her fall into the river.

“It was you!” she cried. “You left me to die.”

“What nonsense,” he said, and she fought the ripple of nausea at his sour breath. “Come with me now.”

“Let me go!” She struggled as he dragged her back to the road.

“Leave her be, you—Oh!” Millie cut off with a scream, and Bella caught sight of Dunton’s footman holding her limp form in his arms.

“Millie!” Bella said. “What have you done, you brute?”

“Leave the whore, Thomas,” Dunton said. “I have what I want.”

“You’ll never have what you want,” Bella snarled. “You’ll have to drag me down the aisle in chains.”

“That can be arranged.”

Dunton pulled her hard against his body and forced his mouth over hers. She twisted her head to one side, then he slipped his hand inside her gown, and she winced at the sound of the material tearing.

“You mean to take me in the dirt, like the rutting pig that you are?”

He began to drag her toward the carriage. “I’ll take you in there,” he said. “No need to wait until our wedding night to claim you as mine.” Bella kicked out, but he merely chuckled. “I shall enjoy breaking you.”

“Sir!” Thomas cried. “Someone’s coming.”

Bella glanced up to see a second carriage approach. Dunton squeezed her wrist until she could feel the bones crunching.

“Say nothing, Arabella, or you’ll regret it.”

The carriage slowed to a halt. Then the door opened, and a man climbed out.

Hope swelled within her—any reasonable creature would listen to her plight.

The man leaned into the carriage. “Remain inside until I say otherwise,” he said. Then he approached, and Bella’s hope died.

It was the Duke of Whitcombe—a man who loathed her.

He stared at her, the familiar sneer on his lips. “Dunton,” he said. “What have we here?”

“My wayward fiancée, as you see.”

Whitcombe lowered his gaze to Bella’s torn neckline before resuming his attention on her, his expression cold and hard.

“Your Grace, please,” Bella said. “I—”

“Be quiet,” Dunton said, tightening his grip. “Whitcombe, I’m afraid my fiancée is suffering from a fit of nerves. But she’s under my control now.”

Whitcombe lowered his gaze to Dunton’s hand still gripping Bella’s wrist. “So I see.”

“The little slut thought she could elude me,” Dunton continued. “You know how women are like.”

“Yes, Dunton,” Whitcombe said icily. “I know exactly what women are like. And Lady Arabella deserves to be in her rightful place.”

Bella’s gut twisted with horror. “Please…”

“Hush, my dear,” Dunton said. “Did you not hear what Whitcombe said?”

“Help Millie, at least, Your Grace, if you won’t help me,” Bella said.

Whitcombe glanced toward Millie, who’d begun to stir in Thomas’s arms. Then the corner of his mouth twitched into a smile.

Bella’s fear gave way to indignation. “You find her predicament amusing?” she said. “Millie is my friend. And even if she is a whore, better that than a duke with no morals who believes that his title gives him the right to destroy the lives of others!”

“Then you don’t love this man?” Whitcombe asked.

Bella glanced at Dunton, then let out a laugh. “Of course not. I loathe him! You dare ask me about love when you don’t understand the word?”

“And you do?” Whitcombe asked.

“I understand more about love than you ever will.”

“Then tell me,” Whitcombe said. “Tell me whom you love.”

She tilted her chin up and fixed him with a glare. “You deserve no such consideration.”

“Damn you, woman!” Whitcombe said. “Tell me or I’ll leave you to rot as Dunton’s duchess.”

“Very well, if you require satisfaction then you shall have it,” she replied. “I love a gardener—someone you’d call a filthy peasant . And though he may hate me, I love him, and I always will. And I’d rather be alone for the rest of my days, because I cannot begin to imagine loving another when my heart belongs to him. Now please, let me go.”

Whitcombe glanced toward the carriage, then his mouth curved into a smile. “You can come out now!”

The carriage tilted sideways, and a man emerged. Tall and muscular, his hair caught the sunlight and sparkled with gold—hair she knew to be silken to the touch. He stood, regarding her with clear gray eyes that she knew and loved—eyes that she knew darkened to the color of coal at the point of pleasure.

“Lawrence…”