Chapter Fifteen #2
In truth, no one needed her. Not even her father anymore…and obviously not her stepmother.
Lyssa rested her arms on the desk and laid her head upon them. “Please, Mama, help me.”
There was no answer.
And so Lyssa did the only thing she could do. She wept.
Lyssa woke with a start, lifting her head up off the desk.
She was immediately alert. The hour was late. She listened, uncertain why she was awake. No sound echoed through the heavy walls and yet, something had woken her.
She looked out the window toward the stable. The contrast of the full moon and black shadows gave the landscape an eerie light—and then she saw movement. The guard, the same one she’d seen earlier, still stood at the door. But then, yawning, he moved inside.
A current of cool air swirled around her and Lyssa caught the scent of roses. It had been the air that had woken her.
The window was closed.
“Mother?” The word came out of her mouth before she’d even realized.
Lyssa slowly rose to her feet, uncertain of her own runaway emotions. Was she so frightened she was imagining ghosts now?
And then an idea struck her. A daring, foolhardy notion.
Almost as if pushed by unseen hands, she moved around the desk, unlocked the window, opened it, and looked out.
Not even a breeze stirred the trees. She leaned over and investigated the wall her parents had once climbed down to escape this very room.
Of course.
The drop to the ground was daunting but in the silver moonlight, she saw that uneven stones jutted here and there down the house’s wall…and again there was the fragrance of roses.
Facing the room, Lyssa announced triumphantly, “You’re here!”
There was no answer. But she knew.
She was not alone…she had never been alone.
Her mother’s presence filled her with hope. The fresh air of the draft slipped through her but this time, her heart was warm. She had no choice but to trust. She’d asked for a way and one had been presented. All that was left now was screwing up her courage.
Lyssa changed back into her “Gypsy” clothes, throwing her plaid over her shoulders to hide her white blouse.
She didn’t want anything from Anice and it felt good to be in her own clothing.
Retrieving the leather tie she’d been using for her hair, she quickly braided the heavy mass as best she could and tied it off.
Her curls sprung out this way and that, but she didn’t care.
She started for the window but stopped. The tarot card lay in a pool of moonlight on the dresser as if beckoning her.
The Knight of Swords. She couldn’t leave without him. Swooping the card up, she stored it in the knapsack she wore over her shoulders, checked outside to see if anyone was watching and then threw one leg out the window.
Surprisingly, the going wasn’t that bad.
The shoes that had been so stiff at the beginning of her journey were now perfect for this sort of exercise.
She was only two stories up. The rocks made for good handholds and she didn’t have any trouble finding a place to put her feet. All it took was courage.
The toughest part was that right below her window, there was an exterior door and next to the door, another window.
She climbed along side-ways, finally losing her foothold and finding herself dangling for a moment before dropping to the earth.
She landed in some overgrown boxwoods that smelled like cat urine.
Stunned, she sat there a moment before clambering out of the bushes and onto her feet. Her stockings were ripped and she had a few scrapes but, thankfully nothing was broken.
The house was in darkness. Keeping to the shadows, Lyssa moved toward the stable, a plan forming in her mind. Not far from the stable door, hidden in the shadows of overhanging fir branches, she pulled the pistol out of the knapsack and approached the stable door.
The horses were inside and asleep. No nickered greeting marred her entrance. In the distance, by the pond, she could hear the croak of frogs and the incessant chirp of other night insects, but they were not disturbed by her.
The moonlight spilling in the stable door highlighted the guard’s legs. He’d propped himself against the wall of the first stall and had fallen asleep.
No one else seemed to be about.
She stepped into his line of sight and held up her pistol. “Don’t move.”
The man jerked at the sound of her voice and raised a sleepy head. His eyes widened as he saw the gun. Lyssa pulled back the hammer of the pistol just as Ian had done and was satisfied with the solid sound of the gun being cocked.
“Don’t hurt me,” the guard pleaded.
“Then take me to your prisoner. Now.”
She must have sounded as if she meant business because he hurried to do her bidding without challenge.
Ian was in one of the last stalls. Her eyes were growing adjusted to the dark, and she could see his wrists and legs were tied and a gag stuffed in his mouth. “Untie him,” she ordered.
The guard dutifully did as she commanded, starting with Ian’s wrists.
Ian was in pain. He moved stiffly, twisting and turning his wrists to get the blood circulating before removing the gag from his mouth. He had to go through the same process with his ankles. He staggered to his feet, using the stall wall for support.
The guard stepped back, but he wasn’t quick enough. Ian’s fist shot out and he caught the man right in the jaw. The guard flew backward against the other side of the stall where he unceremoniously slid to the ground, out cold.
Ian then turned to Lyssa.
“I’m so thankful you are safe—” she started, but her words were cut off by Ian’s hard mouth covering hers. His arms, powerful and strong, wrapped around her and he kissed her right on the lips with a startling intensity.
Fear and worry vanished from Lyssa’s mind. Who would have thought a kiss could be like this?
Yet it was over almost before it began.
“I knew you would come,” he growled out, his voice hoarse. “Knew it.” He took the pistol from her and lifted the knapsack off her back. He still wore his jacket and she noticed the sleeves were practically ripped off at the shoulder seams. “Let’s get out of here,” he said.
She expected them to run directly out the door, but he stopped by one of the stalls. “Hold this.” He shoved the pistol back at her and disappeared into the darkest corner of the stable. When he reappeared, he carried a saddle and a bridle.
“What are we doing?” Lyssa asked anxiously.
“We’re leaving,” came his harsh response. His arm came around her waist, protective, familiar. His lips were close to her ear. “And we are not visiting any more of your relatives ever again.”
His dry comment surprised a hiccup of relief out of her. “I’m so glad you are alive.”
“So am I.” He opened the door to the first stall and walked in. A second later he emerged leading a ghostly gray horse by its halter. The Davidson Stallion. Ian started saddling the animal.
“You can’t!” Lyssa whispered.
“I can. Your bastard cousin owes me.” His hands moved swiftly in the dark.
“But it’s a stallion.”
“And the finest, most temperate horse I’ve ever seen. I’ve been watching him for hours. I had nothing else to do. The vicar was right. This animal is a prize and he’s mine in repayment for your cousin attempting to murder me.”
“Fielder is here.”
Ian paused. “So, that’s what it is all about,” he said as if finally fitting together the pieces of the puzzle.
“It was my stepmother,” Lyssa said. “He said so.”
Ian slipped the bit into the horse’s mouth. “He called her by name?”
“No, but he mentioned ‘her ladyship.’ ”
“If he was speaking of the Duchess, he would have said, ‘her grace.’ ”
Lyssa made an impatient sound. “Why won’t you believe me?”
Before he could answer, a groan came from the stall where the guard lay. “Hurry, Ian,” she whispered.
A door creaked open. Lantern light appeared from beyond the tack room. “Douglas?” a man’s voice called sleepily. “I thought I heard someone in the tack.”
“Quick!” Lyssa urged.
Ian brought the stallion out into the aisle. In a blink, he swung up into the saddle. “Give me your hand.”
The groom and his lantern appeared in the door of the tack room. “Hey there! What are you doing?” he shouted when he saw Ian up on the horse.
Ian took the pistol from her and aimed it at the groom. “Back off.”
Immediately the man did exactly that.
Holding his other hand out to Lyssa, Ian ordered, “Give me your hand.”
She reached for him. He lifted her as if she weighed no more than a feather, but as he was setting her in front of him, the guard fully came to his senses and started shouting. The groom dropped the lantern and raced to shut the stable doors.
“Hold on,” Ian ordered as he put heels to horse. The stallion snorted and gave a prancing step before taking off, knocking over the groom in the process—and they were off even as a cry went up to stop them.