The Duke's Deceit Read online

  Suddenly the stranger burst through the doorway with two of the young mares. “Take them!”

  He thrust the reins into her hands. Before she could stop him he was gone, dashing past Ian as he came through with two more mares.

  Even though reaction was setting in, making every movement a struggle to perform without shaking, she quickly led the horses to the paddock, where Lottie leaned wearily against the gate.

  Rolling tears left streaks of white on her smoke-grimed cheeks, but Lottie managed a quaking smile. “We’re going to save them all, aren’t we Mary?”

  “Yes. Just two more.” She was horrified to hear the sob in her voice. “Just two more and everyone will be safe.”

  Remembering the stranger, she whirled, running back to help him.

  The wind fed the fire, sending it in high bright fingers of russet toward the dawn sun. Suddenly a gust blew the billowing black smoke away from the entrance. Mary saw the stranger leading out the last two horses.

  He must have heard the ominous creaking noise at the same instant she did, for she saw him slap the rumps of both horses, sending them racing away toward her.

  But he didn’t escape. The edge of the falling lintel beam caught the back of his head.

  A scream of horror ripped from her aching throat. As he tumbled forward she rushed to help him, sidestepping the bolting horses.

  He fell just inside the ruined stable. A blazing timber lay across one hessian. She pushed it away, singeing her fingers.

  With both hands she grabbed under his arms to pull him out to the yard. His weight fought her strength. Giving one wrenching sob, she dug her feet firmly into the dirt and pulled even harder. She had to get him to safety! The stable was completely engulfed, the back wall fallen in. Her burned feet and bruised fingers were numb and helpless against his unresponsive form.

  “Give way, Mary, my girl,” Uncle Ian spoke suddenly from behind her.

  Tears of relief choked her as Ian took the burden from her hands. The stranger was taller than her uncle, but Ian possessed a strength belied by his small stature.

  With a grunt, he hefted the stranger over his shoulder. “Which room, Mary girl?”

  “Mine.”

  She ran ahead to straighten the covers and plump her feather pillow. By the time Ian entered with the stranger hanging limply over his shoulder, she was already considering what to do to help this knight-errant.

  Her horses were all safe. It was a miracle, and they’d never have done it without him!

  “Careful with the poor soul,” Lottie fussed, following Ian in.

  The stranger dwarfed her small bed. His long limbs hung over the end where Ian knelt to pull off his boots. She looked at him, wondering who he was. Why had he been riding down the lane so early in the morning?

  He moaned and turned his head as his second boot came off. Blood oozed through his dark wavy hair onto the white cotton pillow cover. His face was caked with grime from the thick smoke.

  She reached for the linen cloth hanging beside her washstand and dipped it into the bowl. Carefully she cleaned his face.

  “Lottie, please fetch some lint so we can wrap his head,” she said without stopping her task. The cloth smoothed his forehead, cleaning bits of ash out of his dark eyebrows. She rinsed it in the bowl, then softly ran it over his high cheekbones and into the deep grooves that ran from either side of his nose.

  It was a strong face, she decided, the face of one used to getting his own way. For some inexplicable reason, perhaps reaction to everything that had happened in the last hour, her fingers trembled slightly as she pressed the cloth to his firm lips.

  He murmured something unintelligible and turned his face into her hand. A tremor ran through her. He was so helpless, and all because he’d helped her!

  Lottie returned, and together they wound a length of lint around his head to stay the blood from the wound.

  “We’ve stopped the bleeding, but he must have a doctor. Uncle Ian, go for Dr. McAlister while I make him more comfortable,” she commanded, her fingers already fumbling with his ruined cravat.

  Her uncle grabbed her wrist in an iron grip. “You’re not about to undress him yourself. You may be forgettin’ who you are, my girl, but I am not. Lottie, fetch me that salve from the oak chest.” Ian threw the words over his shoulder, his steady eyes challenging Mary.

  She shook free of his grasp. “Uncle Ian, don’t be absurd! I am nineteen and not about to swoon at the sight of a naked chest. This poor man needs our help!”

  “And that he’ll be gettin’,” Ian declared, his usually merry mouth a hard straight slash in his narrow flushed face. “Ah, Lottie, thank’ee lass.”

  Handing the salve to Ian, Lottie cast Mary an understanding glance from red-rimmed eyes. She responded with her most pleading look, but Lottie merely shook her head. There would be no help from that quarter.

  “What do you expect me to do? Pace the hallway wringing my hands like the veriest miss while you attend to his needs?”

  Already tackling the ruined lawn shirt, her uncle ignored her. He could be just as stubborn as she.

  “Mary, Ian’s right.” Lottie placed one plump hand on Mary’s shoulder, urging her up from the bed. “Come away now. You should be after checking your horse and making sure the others are all right. There’s much to be done elsewhere. It’s not proper for you to be here.”

  Knowing how hard Lottie always strived to do “the proper,” Mary relented. “I shall do as you ask, Lottie. But when I return I insist on helping!”

  Making her way down the narrow stairs, she felt the burns on her calves and feet begin to blister, making it difficult to walk without a limp. Biting her lip against the pain, she moved out into the yard.

  The stable was gone. All that remained was a grotesque ruin of blackened timbers that smoldered and occasionally spit out a burst of red sparks. Mary was grateful the wind had died so there was no threat to the house.

  She could see her horses, huddled together at the far side of the paddock, Lara nosing Beauty from outside the fence. But the stranger’s stallion stood exactly where he had been left. Running a palm along his black glossy neck, she marveled at his lines. He was the finest Arabian she’d ever seen. If she had such a magnificent stud, all her problems would be over.

  The Moroccan leather of the saddlebag only reinforced what she already suspected; her unknown hero was someone of quality. The bag yielded two fresh lawn shirts and five cravats. When she lifted out his personal linen, her cheeks burned with embarrassment. She quickly stuffed them back and pulled out a slim leather-bound volume.

  On the inside cover was a clue to his identity. “To my son, Richard. With love, Mother.”

  Richard. That was all. That, and the trappings of wealth.

  Perhaps he came from the life her mother had abandoned so long ago. It was a dream world of princes and queens, of elaborate balls and stately homes and beautiful flowing gowns. Mary’s head was full of the stories her mother had told of her life before she’d married John Masterton and come to live at the Scottish border. She never regretted a moment of that life, she’d insisted, content with her husband and their small horse farm.

  After the terrible winter when her parents died, Mary had briefly dreamed of going to London and tasting that life. But it was a world that was forever closed to her, regardless of Uncle Ian’s protestations. According to the solicitor, her grandfather wanted nothing to do with her. He would only continue to pay the tiny stipend Mary’s mother had received from her mother if she stayed away from society and didn’t disgrace him.

  Clasping the book to the thin cotton bodice of her ruined night robe, Mary surveyed her world, the only world she had ever known, or was likely to know.

  At least the snug two-story cottage where she had been born was unharmed. Lottie’s roses still climbed o
ne wall, spangling the whitewash with splashes of pink. The reek of smoke swirled around her, but she lifted her chin, refusing to give in to despair. This was her father’s legacy to her: the horses and this small piece of land. No one could or would take it away from her.

  And now she had a stranger to thank for that. If he hadn’t helped … She couldn’t bear to think of it!

  She grabbed the reins of Richard’s horse; at first he wouldn’t move, but Mary had a way with animals. She cooed softly into his ear as she coaxed him into a smaller ring next to her own horses. She called to Lara and let her into the paddock so she would be safe.

  Limping slightly, she went about her chores, taking the tack off the stranger’s horse and feeding and watering all the animals. All the while she refused to look at the smoldering heap that had once been the stable.

  After she finished, she picked up the book and went back into the house. Uncle Ian was in the kitchen, putting salve on his own burns.

  “Done the best we can, Mary girl. I’ll be off to fetch Dr. McAlister now.”

  Nodding, she moved past him to climb the stairs again to her room. She was accustomed to hard work, but her muscles were protesting her extra exertion, and the burns sent streaks of pain up her calves.

  She couldn’t resist looking at the bed where Richard lay utterly motionless. The pallor of his washed skin beneath the dark hair tumbling forward across his wide brow was terrifying to see. His high cheekbones outlined bruises beginning to form below the fan of his dark lashes.

  “I believe his name is Richard. That was all I found written in this book.” Mary whispered, as she always did in sick rooms. “He … he is a fine-looking man.”

  “He’s handsome as sin!” Lottie sighed, straightening her nightcap more securely upon her graying gold curls. “What’s the likes of him doing in the wilds of Hexham?”

  “Perhaps journeying to Edinburgh,” Mary offered, moving a step closer to examine the bandages wrapped around Richard’s burned hands.

  “No matter now. Done all we can until the doctor arrives. I’ll stay with him, Mary.” Lottie nodded, new spirit in her voice. “Best for you to wash up and change before Dr. McAlister arrives. I’ve put a washbowl and towel for you in the sewing room. And best use the salve on yourself, too. Your uncle swears it’s a cure for everything from boils to consumption.”

  Mary took the salve and one of her two serviceable outfits—a plain black bombazine spencer and full skirt—into the tiny sewing room. Her arms and feet throbbed with pain, making her toilette awkward to perform. She couldn’t bear to pull on the riding boots she wore every day, so she stepped into her only other shoes, thin silk slippers that were almost like new, although she’d had them for years.

  By the time she finished, the salve was already soothing her burns. She hoped it worked as well for Richard.

  She moved more easily out into the tiny hall and found her bedroom door closed again. After a morning such as this, a mere closed door was certainly not going to stop her! Lifting her chin, she pushed the door open.

  Of the three stunned faces that greeted her entrance, only the doctor’s held a faint smile of welcome.

  “Miss Masterton, I was just informing your uncle and Miss Barton that we have a serious injury here. Very serious indeed.” He emphasized his words with a vigorous shake of his head. “All we can do now is care for his burns and force as much nourishment as possible. If he does not regain consciousness in the next day, I very much doubt that he ever will.”

  “Poor soul,” Lottie breathed, her round face unusually pale.

  “Poor soul indeed,” the doctor agreed as he closed his traveling bag. “I’ll be coming by tomorrow. Let’s pray for some change, but I hold out little hope.”

  “Thank you for coming, Dr. McAlister.” Mary flicked him the tiniest of smiles. “We’ll do our best for him.”

  “I’ll be showing the doctor out, Mary girl.” Uncle Ian said pointedly. “Then I’ll be seein’ to what’s left of the stable and the cause of the fire. Somethin’ strange goin’ on here. Mighty strange.”

  “Yes, it is. But we saved the horses. That’s the important thing. Please check on them, Uncle Ian. I’ve fed and watered them, but you’ll know better if they’re suffering any effects of the fire.”

  She closed the door quietly behind him and turned to stare at the man whose presence so filled her small, tidy room. Of all the emotions tumbling over one another in her thoughts, one lodged hot and tight in her chest. Guilt forced her to move swiftly to take a stance beside the bed.

  “He is grievously injured because he came to our aid.” Her whisper came out in a harsh exhalation. “We must do our utmost to help him recover. I shall stay with him while you prepare some thin gruel, Lottie. It will be a good sign if he can take nourishment.”

  A short time later Lottie returned with a bowl of her special recipe, a gruel to cure all. Determined to care for Richard herself, Mary urged her away to prepare a meal for the rest of them.

  Mary very carefully dripped a tiny spoonful of gruel between Richard’s dry lips. He swallowed, his strong throat muscles moving, and relief flooded her, with little bubbles of joy popping in her veins. Surely this was an encouraging sign.

  She repeated the ritual every two hours all through the day and into the night. At midnight she sent an exhausted Lottie to her room. Uncle Ian had relented enough to admit that there was nothing unseemly about her being alone with such a grievously injured man, particularly one who was unconscious.

  The tall clock in the downstairs hall was chiming two as she very slowly unwrapped the bandages from his hands. A heavy gold crest ring slipped off his finger when she reapplied Ian’s salve. She studied the chunk of gold resting on her palm, then looked into the face of its wearer.

  Lottie had spoken the truth. Even with bruises marking the skin, there was strength and an appealing beauty in the perfect arrangement of flesh knitted to bone in Richard’s countenance. She knew little of men, but a great deal of horses. There was a breeding that lent grace to this man, even in his sorry state.

  Guilt, which had driven her all through this interminable day, blazed hot and fresh, swelling into her throat. She might never see the eyes now hidden by his hooded lids and dark lashes.

  But neither would those who cared about him. Who was he? If he didn’t regain consciousness, as the doctor feared, how would they know where to send word?

  She quietly lifted the lid of her small rosewood jewel box and placed the ring on top of the seed pearl necklace and earrings she’d had from her mother on her sixteenth birthday. What a sacrifice it must have been for her parents to pay for such a trinket. She lifted out the sapphire ring her mother had been wearing the night she fled with Mary’s father to Gretna Green. It wasn’t nearly as rich as Richard’s signet, but it meant everything to her. It symbolized her parents’ love and hopes and dreams. She wouldn’t ever let that die; she couldn’t!

  Nor could she let this man perish because of his kindness to her. Perhaps she could use the ring to help her find his family.

  The doctor’s dire predictions the next day increased her guilt. Each hour Richard remained unconscious, his chance of recovery diminished. She had to know who he was, how to help him.

  Lottie sent her to bed right after supper, insisting she’d done the work of ten that day. Truth to tell, she was exhausted and fell into a dreamless sleep the moment her head rested on the pillow.

  But, by one in the morning, judging by the chime of the downstairs clock, she was wide awake, studying the shadows dancing on the ceiling from the dying embers in the small grate. At fifteen minutes after the hour she shook Lottie, who had fallen asleep in the rocker, awake.

  She jerked her head back against the curved wood and blinked up in a daze at Mary. “What is it?” she asked in a sleep-slurred whisper.

  “Go to your bed,
Lottie. I wish to sit with him.”

  Still slightly groggy, Lottie rose slowly and shook her head. “There’s no change. Poor soul.” She flicked him one last look before quietly shutting the door.

  Mary stared down at him, fear congealing in her chest. He appeared smaller in the bed, as if he were slowly fading away. Suddenly desperate, Mary lifted one bandaged hand, holding it carefully between her palms.

  “Richard, my name is Mary.” Her harsh whisper fell into the stillness of the tiny room. “I want to thank you for your help. I’m sorry such bravery has cost you so dearly.”

  She continued talking to him of nothing and everything, as if her words could somehow keep him tethered to life. Late into the night she talked, holding his hand. She told him everything: about her parents and her life, her hopes and her dreams. To her alone here in the dimly lit bedchamber, it seemed the right thing to do.

  Toward morning she forced a little more broth through his dry, cracked lips. Exhausted past bearing, she sank into the rocking chair next to the bed.

  She awoke to bright sunlight and to Lottie’s voice frantically calling her name.

  “Mary … Mary … you must wake up!”

  Startled, she quickly glanced toward the bed as her heart raced. The slow, steady rise and fall of the stranger’s wide chest beneath the coverlet caused her to gasp and close her eyes in relief. He lived still.

  Mary uncurled from the rocker, stretching her aching muscles. “Lottie, whatever is amiss?”

  “Sir Robert is downstairs waiting in the parlor,” she blurted out, staring at Mary with round, frightened eyes. Everything about Lottie was round, from the fat round curls bobbing behind her ears to the round small feet stuffed into flat-heeled slippers peeking from beneath her hem. Even her mouth pursed into a circle as she gasped. “What should we do? He refuses to leave without seeing you. And your uncle has gone to fetch lumber for the new stable.”