Chapter 30
Catherine stepped into the carriage beside Mr. McKay.
A thin veil of mist hung across the fields, silvering the hedgerows and softening the lines of the distant trees.
She had been told there was some matter of urgency, something that could not wait, though the butler had offered little more than his stiff assurances.
His manner was the same as always, measured, exact, deferential.
And yet, beneath his composure, she thought she glimpsed a current of purpose, as though every step and word had been prepared in advance.
The house sleeps. Aaron sleeps, and I slip away to see a man whom Mr. McKay says will prove to me that Aaron cannot be trusted. Or the man who calls himself Aaron. This is madness! I do not know who to trust!
She had no time to question him before the carriage lurched forward, wheels grinding against the gravel drive.
Catherine folded her hands in her lap, her heart restless.
Aaron had seemed so certain the previous night that she meant to leave him, and she had only just begun to sense how mistaken he might be.
They had been on the cusp of something, if not reconciliation, then at least recognition.
And now, here she was, carried away on some errand she could not fathom, her newly built trust crumbling before her eyes.
The countryside slipped past in silence. Mr. McKay did not speak. Catherine glanced out of the window, wondering if Aaron was yet awake, if he would seek her when he found her gone.
After a mile or so, the carriage slowed, then came to a halt at a crossroads bordered by tall beech trees. To her surprise, another carriage stood waiting there, its black horses stamping impatiently in the mud. McKay shifted, his gloved hand tightening on the door latch.
“If you would alight, Your Grace,” he said with a bow.
She frowned. “Why? What business requires a change of carriages?”
“It is necessary,” the old butler replied, opening the door.
Catherine alighted, Mr. McKay following. Her feet had barely touched the ground when Mr. McKay gestured to the driver. The man cracked his whip and drew away, leaving them standing alone with the second conveyance.
Mr. McKay extended his arm, urging her forward. Alarm prickled at the back of her neck. She hesitated, and then the door of the waiting carriage opened.
Catherine’s breath caught in her throat. Inside, seated with a smile of pure triumph, was the Earl of Stafford.
“No!” she cried, instinct driving her to flee.
She spun, skirts tangling about her legs, but McKay’s hand clamped around her arm like iron.
The driver of the waiting carriage leapt down, seizing her other arm.
She struggled wildly, her bonnet slipping askew.
In the scuffle, a brooch pinned to her shawl tore free and fell unnoticed to the ground.
“Let me go!” she screamed, kicking, twisting, fighting as best she could.
But she was no match for their strength.
In moments, she was forced into the carriage, and the door slammed behind her. The wheels jolted, and they were off again, her cries swallowed by the pounding of hooves.
Stafford leaned back, his smile broadening.
“My dear duchess,” he said silkily, “there is no cause for distress. You are on the path to your destiny.”
Her chest heaved, her pulse racing. She turned furious eyes on McKay.
“How could you? Betraying your master, betraying me? After all Aaron has done for you?”
McKay sneered, the mask of a servant’s humility cast aside.
“You know nothing of where my loyalty lies, Your Grace. I have betrayed no one.”
Stafford chuckled, his fingers tapping against his knee.
“This is nothing personal, Catherine. Only business. You will thank me, I assure you, for what is to come. All your dreams, every last one, are about to come true.”
“Dreams?” she spat. “You speak in riddles. If you think I do not know my aunt and uncle are behind this…”
Stafford’s laugh was sharp as a whip-crack.
“Those blithering fools? They could not even keep a defenseless young woman in the grip of my Poppy confined until her inheritance was secured. Pathetic creatures.” He scoffed to his side.
Catherine’s blood went cold. Even McKay had the grace to look startled at the revelation. Before she could even gather her thoughts on his confession, his smile widened like a Cheshire cat.
“Yes, yes—it was my idea. Stroke of genius, if I may say so. Your dear aunt and uncle were so desperate for funds, so eager to maintain their lifestyle. I merely suggested a way to... manage you. Keep you docile. Dependent.”
He waved a hand dismissively. “We spun a convenient yarn. That you carried some fever that claimed your parents. That without careful treatment, you would succumb as they did. Natural causes, of course. A tragic weakness in the bloodline.”
“My parents…” she whispered, the words catching in her throat.
“Died of a fever, nothing more sinister than that. Though your aunt and uncle were happy enough to let you believe otherwise when it suited their purposes.” Stafford leaned forward slightly. “The poppy was insurance. Unfortunately, your guardians proved incompetent even at that simple task.”
Catherine felt bile rise in her throat. The casual cruelty of it. The calculated manipulation. Years of her life stolen, her mind and body poisoned, all for money.
He shook his head. “No, I want nothing more to do with them. If you are to be won, Catherine, it shall be by stronger hands than theirs. I have taken charge now.”
Her chin lifted in defiance in spite of it all.
“I am married. If you believe you can force me to wed you, you are gravely mistaken. It is impossible. Both in the eyes of God and of the Law.”
“Nothing is impossible,” Stafford replied, oil slick, his eyes glittering. “Though your hand would be an agreeable prize, it is not the chief one I seek. My sights are set rather higher.”
Her lips pressed tight. She threw out the only weapon she had at her disposal, words.
“Aaron will see to it that Sir Obadiah leaves you out of his business dealings. If he cannot, then I will persuade him myself.”
At that, Stafford laughed uproariously, the sound filling the carriage until it was almost unbearable.
“Oh, my dear, you will change your mind soon enough.”
Catherine turned her face to the window, feigning nausea.
“Air,” she murmured faintly. “I need air.”
McKay opened the window, the servant’s instincts hard to kill. As the cool rush of wind struck her face, Catherine let slip one of her gloves. It tumbled onto the road below, unnoticed by her captors. She concealed the remaining glove beneath her bonnet, which she held in her lap.
If Aaron wants to claim me, let him come. Let him follow the trail. Please God, let him come for me!
Later, as Stafford lit a cigar, filling the carriage with choking smoke, she dropped her second glove, using the same ruse of needing fresh air.
Catherine watched the landscape roll by until they reached another crossroads. Aaron would need to know which path they had taken. She bit her lip, feeling McKay’s stolid gaze upon her, alert to tricks.
“I need some air,” she said.
“You have it,” Stafford replied, tossing his cigar out of the open window.
Catherine shifted as though to lean towards the window, but McKay clamped an iron grip on her arm. As the carriage turned, she stamped her foot down hard upon his and lunged for the door handle.
She did not make it.
McKay seized her, but not before she managed to let fall a small silver hair clip. Another token, a prayer, a breadcrumb trail.
Will Aaron follow? After what he said last night, perhaps he will be so angry at my leaving that he will wash his hands of me…
Fear gnawed at her heart. She remembered Haventon, remembered the months of fog when her every waking hour was blurred by the poppy juice they fed her.
How helpless she had been then.
She would not go back to that. She was a Duchess now. A Duchess, she told herself fiercely. And she would act like one.
McKay, noting her defiance, gave a low chuckle.
“Do not comfort yourself with hopes of rescue. The Duke will not be pursuing. I prepared a drink for him this morning, laced with the same medicine he gave to you. It will be as though he drank half a bottle instead of the single glass he actually took. He will be lucky if he wakes by late afternoon, and he will have no notion which road we took.”
Her stomach clenched.
If true, Aaron would indeed be incapacitated.
She pressed her hands together until her knuckles whitened, forcing down panic. She must depend on herself.
The carriage finally turned into the drive of a modest country house.
Catherine guessed they had gone perhaps ten miles.
The garden had gone entirely to seed. Weeds had swallowed the paths whole, ivy crawled up the stone walls in great, strangling ropes, and the shutters hung at angles that spoke of years of neglect.
The paint on the door had peeled away in long, curling strips, revealing the dark wood beneath.
It was a house that had been forgotten.
She was ushered inside by a manservant who said nothing and met her eyes even less. The hall was dim, lit by a single window caked with grime. The floorboards creaked beneath her feet. The air smelled of damp and dust and something else, something faintly medicinal, like a sickroom.
A door stood open at the far end of the hall.
A man was standing in it.
Catherine stopped walking.
He was tall. Lean, in the way that men who had once been broad become lean after illness or grief has worn them down to the bone.
His hair, which had once been the color of pale wheat, had gone almost entirely to gray, cropped close to his skull.
Deep lines carved his face, scored into the skin around his mouth and eyes as though time had taken a blade to him.
But his eyes.
Catherine knew those eyes.
They were bright and steady and very, very blue, and they were fixed on her face with an expression of such quiet, wondering recognition that her legs very nearly gave way beneath her.
“Catherine…” he murmured softly, wonder in his tone.
The voice was different. Thinner. Rougher at the edges, worn down like sea glass.
But the warmth in it, the gentle, teasing undercurrent, that she would have known anywhere…
“Queen Kate,” he said, and smiled. “…Of the Woodland Realm.”
The name hit her like a fist to the sternum.
The woods rushed back. Summer light filtering green and gold through the canopy. Mud on her boots and leaves in her hair and a boy with a stick sword and a laugh too loud for the quiet.
Catherine's hand flew to her mouth.
“Sir Aaron…” she whispered. “Wolfheart.”