Chapter 5

CHAPTER5

Silas escaped the fog of cigar smoke. Swirling his glass of brandy, he stepped out onto the garden terrace, just beyond the drawing room that had become the gentlemen’s smoking room for the evening. He could not abide the scent of cigar smoke these days, though he had once relished the pastime. Now, it just reminded him of his year of hell.

He gulped down half of the glass’s contents and wandered to one of the stone benches on the terrace. The granite was icy against the seat of his trousers, but the liquor warmed his insides, soothing his irritation toward this entire ball.

To run away once could be considered a mishap, to run away twice—one might begin to think of it as a habit, he mused as he sipped what remained of the brandy, his eyes scouring the darkness beyond the terrace while the music of the ball drifted down from the doors a good distance away.

“But would you run away thrice?” he whispered, raising an eyebrow. “Would you dare?”

A sound made him pause, lowering his glass. A stifled, strange noise.

Someone enjoying the gardens a little too freely? He arched an amused eyebrow, remembering when he had been that sort of gentleman.

He stifled a yawn, preparing himself to go back inside to the sly whispers and probing questions of the other men, when the sound came again. Buried within the strangled hiss of it, one decipherable word crackled through the air toward him: “Help!”

It is none of your concern. Let someone else contend with it, a vestigial, selfish voice warned in his mind, but he was already rising to his feet, his ears pricked, his eyes scouring the thick darkness for the owner of that plea.

* * *

“I do not even need the church and the frills,” the drunkard slurred, stumbling ever closer to Emma.

She pressed as far back into the wall as she could go, her spine aching, her nails clawing at the stone as if she might somehow be able to dig her way to safety.

“Why, I have been searching for a new mistress,” the man continued. “You would be well taken care of, for as long as you kept me entertained. You cannot expect a better offer than that, not considering your position.”

Emma clenched her jaw, grinding out the words, “Do not come any closer. I am armed. I have a… blade up my sleeve.”

“I have heard that one before.” The man snorted, blasting a brandy-soaked breath of air in her face.

“I will not hesitate to defend myself!”

“No one will hear you out here,” the man replied, now no more than a step or two away. “And your chaperone is… otherwise engaged. I made certain of it.”

Emma gulped, recalling something Eliza had said. “Lord Bolam, is that you? Are you not in enough trouble with your wife? Leave me be, at once.”

It was a bold assumption, and one she had no evidence for, other than the fact that he did resemble a particularly warty toad. He smelled like one, too. But, as his face twisted into a mask of outrage, his saggy face doubling in wrinkles, she knew she had made a rather precise guess… and he did not seem happy about it.

“How dare you speak my name! How dare you mention my wife!” he seethed, closing the gap between them.

He was upon her before she could even think of pulling herself over the wall or vaulting the banister of the stone steps, seizing her by the shoulders. One of his clammy, sour-smelling hands closed over her mouth, his rotund body pushing against her as if he meant to flatten her into a paste against the wall. Or worse.

“Help!” she tried to yell, but his hand tightened, muffling the word.

So, she bit him. Her teeth pinched the fleshy spot at the base of his forefinger, merely grazing the spot at first. But on the second try, her teeth sank into his flesh and she did not release her grip, biting as hard as she could.

“Vile witch!” Lord Bolam snarled, snatching back his hand.

Emma grasped her one and only opportunity and darted for the steps. She had just settled one hand on the banister, and braced one foot, when Lord Bolam grabbed the back of her gown and yanked her backward with all of his not inconsiderable might, despite being inebriated and clearly in bad health.

He sent her thudding back into the wall, her spine protesting. But as he attempted to surge toward her, she delivered a stinging kick to his shins.

“Harpy!” Lord Bolam hissed, hopping about like a frog in a frying pan.

She was trapped again, and no one was coming to help her. To make matters worse, she had incensed Lord Bolam, and it was quite obvious that he was not going to allow her to leave until she had been punished enough to satisfy him.

As he hobbled toward her, he raised his hand… and Emma squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the blow. In her mind, if the impact knocked him off balance, she might have one more chance of escaping over the steps and back onto the terrace.

But the strike did not come. Instead, she felt a rush of air and an odd, soft thud on the grass in front of her—not loud or heavy enough to be Lord Bolam toppling over, but more like he had started hopping again.

Slowly, she cracked open one eye, in time to see a dark shape standing right in front of her. Through the gap between muscular thighs, she saw that Lord Bolam was on his knees, and there was a hand at his throat, grasping the wretch’s collar and cravat so tight that, even in the low light, Lord Bolam’s face looked purple.

His eyes bulged as he clawed at the strangling grip.

“She told you to leave her alone,” a gruff voice growled, the tone sending a thrilling, frightening shiver up Emma’s spine.

“She… approached me,” Lord Bolam croaked, his eyes rolling back.

“Lie to me again, and I shall snap this thick neck of yours like a twig,” the dark shape warned, more animal than man.

Lord Bolam snorted. “Well, she… was asking… for it. She is… no better… than a harlot.”

“I would not approach you if you were the last man on earth! I came outside for some fresh air because I felt unwell! And you waited until my chaperone had gone elsewhere!” Emma snapped, hugging herself as she leaned back against the wall, letting it support her shaky weight.

She could not see her rescuer’s face, nor did she know if he was the right sort of rescuer, considering what he had just threatened to do but, for now, she would take his method of liberation.

“The truth, at last,” the dark figure said. “Lord Bolam, if I ever hear of you touching this young lady—or any young lady—again, against their will, I shall not hesitate to finish what I have begun. I am well versed in how to make people disappear, Lord Bolam.”

The not-so-gentlemanly gentleman released his grip on Lord Bolam, and the wretched beast slumped forward, a hacking cough tearing up his throat as he struggled for breath.

“Is that… what you did to… Lord Jedburgh?” Lord Bolam rasped, peering up at the dark shape with bloodshot eyes.

Emma had heard that name before. Lord Jedburgh. But in her terror and awe, she could not place it.

“I do not know Lord Jedburgh at all,” the mysterious rescuer replied, his voice rough and sharp, “nor what has happened to him… but if something terrible befell him, then you may expect the same if you do not obey my command.”

Lord Bolam balked, staggering to his feet. For a moment, Emma thought the vile man might attempt to take a swing at her savior, but he seemed to think better of it. His eyes widened for just a moment, fear glazing his expression, before he stumbled off up the stairs, hurrying across the terrace and out of sight.

Emma held her breath as her dark knight turned to face her.

“We must stop meeting in such unusual circumstances,” he said, his breathtaking face catching the golden glow that spilled from the ballroom. His voice had transformed, too, losing that beastly raggedness and transforming into something so recognizable she wondered how it could possibly be the same person.

She blinked in astonishment. “You… should stop saving me.”

“Should I?” He tilted his head to one side. “But what would have happened to you if I had followed such an order?”

She swallowed thickly. “Fewer people would be whispering about me. I might not have felt unwell and might not have been forced to come out here, where Lord Bolam could find me.”

“I am to blame for this? How interesting.” Something glinted in his striking eyes, but she could not pinpoint the feeling. Anger? Annoyance? Amusement? All three? She was not certain.

“I did not say that,” Emma mumbled. “Rather, that is not at all what I meant. Of course, you are not to blame. Indeed, I am… grateful, Your Grace. Thank you for coming to my aid.”

He tutted under his breath, taking a few steps forward. Her lungs seized as he gently pinched the neckline of her dress, close to her collarbone, and tugged the material back into place. She had not realized it had been skewed in the conflict with Lord Bolam, nor could she think of it as the duke’s knuckles lightly grazed her bare skin.

“A mere murmur of gratitude will not do,” he said silkily, retreating a half step. “You are indebted to me now. Once I have decided what you owe, I shall collect.”

Emma’s eyes widened, her skin tingling where he had touched her. “What I… owe?”

“Indeed.” He bowed his head slightly and turned to his left, vaulting over the banister of the terrace steps with the ease and grace of a cat, before sweeping up onto the terrace itself.

He paused there briefly. “I suggest you hurry back inside, and I would also suggest that you keep a tighter rein upon your chaperone,” he said, and strolled off in the same direction that Lord Bolam had gone, whistling an eerie tune that chilled Emma as much as it thrilled her.

She was so entranced that she did not move, until that whistle abruptly ended, and she heard his voice calling back to her, gruff and commanding, “Now, Lady Emma. Move yourself.”

She finally jumped into action, running up the steps and back into the ballroom, narrowly avoiding a collision with Eliza, who was rushing toward the garden doors.

“I am so very sorry!” the older woman said. “I tried to return as swiftly as possible, but Sir Lionel caught me in conversation, and it is impossible to escape him once he has begun.”

Emma just smiled. “It is quite all right, Eliza. No harm befell me, and my stomach is feeling much, much better.”

It was not entirely true, but the roiling in her belly had changed, her earlier waves of nausea now exploding into the violent flutter of butterflies.

“Well,” Eliza replied, “thank goodness for that.”

* * *

Silas had returned to the smoking room, only to find that he could not settle, could not rest, could not find any semblance of ease within the confines of Bruxton Hall. Anger fizzed in his veins like unopened champagne, threatening to spray his fury at the next person who spoke to him or asked him another question about where he had been.

For everyone’s sake, he made his excuses and departed the fine manor through the terrace doors, not wanting to go to the trouble of saying farewell to anyone else. He would write to Edwin the following day, thanking him for a wonderful evening and, for once, it would not be a lie.

Indeed, for the first time since his reappearance in society, he had not utterly hated the social occasion. He hated Lord Bolam with every shred of disgust he possessed, he hated the gossipmongers and nosy guests, he hated the pomp and ceremony, but he had not hated his waltz with Lady Emma.

He could not be sorry that he had attended, for he dreaded to think what might have happened to that beautiful, intriguing young lady if he had not.

It is as if fate is conspiring for me, without me having to lift a finger. He leaned his temple against the glass of the carriage window, the nighttime world trailing by outside.

Truly, it was some manner of serendipity that had put him in the right place at the right time on at least two occasions that night.

I could still send something bloody and threatening to Lord Bolam, just to be certain he has understood me, he considered, his blood fizzing once more as he thought of that vile specimen. By his reckoning, anyone who was lowly and wicked enough to trap someone against their will, in any capacity, was pure evil.

“What if I had been a woman?” he whispered to the empty carriage, shuddering.

His absence lately might have gone very differently if he had been of the female persuasion; he knew that much, and it only served to boil his blood some more.

Indeed, by the time the carriage made its way down the winding driveway of Hudson Court, several hours’ later, he had barely managed to reduce his rage down to a simmer. Then again, that seemed to be his permanent state of late, never far away from losing his temper.

As the carriage finally halted, Silas got out and trudged up the steps to the front door, suddenly feeling the weight of the evening in his bones. He was looking forward to a snifter of brandy and then his bed—or maybe more than a snifter, to be sure that his slumber would not be plagued by the usual nightmares.

“Your Grace!” The butler, Mr. Goldsmith, jolted at the sight of his master. “You’ve returned early. Did you not fare well?”

“I did all I went there to do. There was no reason to linger any longer,” Silas replied stiffly, marching toward his study, where he kept his best brandy.

He had just settled down in the high-backed armchair that sat behind his ancient desk—which, according to rumor, had once belonged to Richard III—when a knock came at the study door. It opened before Silas could respond, revealing the bushy eyebrows, one arched in anticipation, and anxious smile of his dearest and only friend, Duncan MacDean.

“Thought ye might be in need of company,” Duncan said, closing the door behind him. “And I ken that I’m in dire need of a drink.”

Silas poured two glasses and skimmed one to his friend, as Duncan sat in the opposite chair. “Who is to blame—my mother or my brother?”

“It wouldnae be polite of me to say,” Duncan replied, grinning.

Silas took a grateful sip of the brandy, flashing a knowing look over the glass. “Ah, so Luke tried to beat you at chess again.”

“He willnae cease.” Duncan groaned. “I must’ve played twenty rounds with him tonight!”

“Did you let him win at least once?”

“Och, I let the lad win twice, but he kenned I was lettin’ him win and demanded we play again.” Duncan shifted his position in the chair, throwing his legs over the armrest, getting comfortable. “But what of yer games, eh? Yer maither mentioned ye might be findin’ yerself a bride tonight, though if ye’re back so early, the hunt must’ve been fruitless.”

Silas gazed down into the amber liquid for a moment, letting his mind wander through the events of the evening. He envisioned the way Lady Emma had looked at him when he had leaped to her rescue, pictured the frantic rise and fall of her exceptional bosom, and the gleam of gratitude in her beautiful blue eyes.

He remembered, too, how she had obeyed his order to keep those pretty eyes on him while they waltzed, as though she was all too eager to do anything that he asked of her. Even though he knew that she should not have danced with him at all, considering her situation, she had not been able—or willing—to refuse. It sparked all kinds of possibilities in his head.

He mustered a small, rare smile that felt tight upon his lips. “Au contraire, my good man—I think I might have snared just the woman.”