Chapter 2
In the books, when a lady swooned, she woke up reclining somewhere gracefully, almost as if she was waking up from a deep, refreshing sleep.
This was not, of course, Daphne's experience.
Her eyes jerked open what could only have been a minute or two afterwards, and she found herself crumpled over her bed, the coverlet wrinkled beneath her, the pillows ruining her elaborately styled hair.
Her wrists were laid out before her, and the maid who'd waited on her earlier was apologetically winding rope around them.
A pang of fear shot through her, and she tried to jerk her hands away. The maid's eyes widened, darting to the sides as if trying to tell her something, and she tightened her grip.
"You banged your head, I think, my lady," she said loudly. "When you fell. You must be confused, and groggy."
Now that it had been drawn to her attention, Daphne noticed a throbbing pain on the back of her head, and imagined that if she lifted a hand there, she'd find a lump.
Not that she could, of course, because she was being tied up again. The ropes grazed her sore, bruised wrists, and she winced. The maid grimaced apologetically.
Over at the other side of the room, the Marquess and Green were conversing together in low voices, paying her no more attention than they would a bit of furniture, or perhaps a particularly lowly servant.
"Just a little longer, my lady," the maid whispered, so quietly that Daphne almost didn't hear. She gave Daphne's hands a quick, light squeeze. Then she darted back, head lowered, hands folded in front of herself, just as the Marquess turned to survey his unwilling bride.
Gone was the quizzing-glass and dandyish air.
The sword at his side seemed even more prominent than before, and under his face powder, his expression was grim.
Daphne shivered. This was the man who killed with a smile and had so relentlessly squeezed her father for money.
She thought of her father, kicking his heels at the church, miserable, and felt a pang of pity.
Most of her pity, however, she wisely saved for herself.
"Not long now, dearest," the Marquess said brusquely. "We'll deal with this little problem, then you and I shall go ahead with our union. Won't that be nice?"
In a flash, he was at her side, leaning over her until he filled her vision and she choked on scented powder and cologne.
"I, for one, cannot wait," he purred, grinning.
She turned her head away, unable to wriggle away because of the rope. He straightened abruptly, and hurried out of the room, followed by Green. The maid came last of all, shooting Daphne a quick, furtive look.
She did not lock the door.
Breathing out, Daphne forced herself to wait, listening to the receding footsteps disappear down the hallway. She could hear hoofbeats outside now, and shouts, and the report of a gun echoed across the grounds.
She wished with all her heart that she'd asked that maid's name, so she could remember it, because not only had the maid left the door unlocked, but she hadn't tied off Daphne's ropes.
Unclenching her fists, Daphne let the loose ends of the rope spill out. The maid had tucked them there, giving the impression of tight bonds around her wrists.
Equal parts thrilled and terrified, Daphne sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed.
I must leave, but where to?
She rapidly considered each of her few acquaintances, rejecting each one. They were in the middle of nowhere out here, and nobody in the town would help her.
Her father would not, that was clear. She liked to imagine that he did want to help her and would have helped her if he wasn't so terrified of the Marquess, but it was best not to put him in a situation where he could disappoint her again.
Kicking off her ridiculous, pinching shoes, Daphne tiptoed across the room.
She knew that some of her old clothes had been saved in the closet, hopefully with her "foraging" boots – a pair of old, well-worn laced boots with thick heels and absolutely nothing feminine about them.
It was tempting to tiptoe around the house in her stockinged feet, to keep quiet, but then what if she needed to run?
Boots on, Daphne crept to the door. Her rustling wedding dress trailed behind her, and she absently hoicked it up.
I should probably change, but there's no time.
The door creaked as she opened it, and her heart leapt into her mouth. But there was no footman or soldier waiting outside, no grinning Marquess to inform her that it was a test, that she'd failed, and would now be punished.
Closing the door softly behind her – no need to alert them to anything being amiss – Daphne hurried down the hallway, ears pricked and eyes peeled.
It was clear that the house was in chaos. Once or twice, a servant or footman went darting out of a room just ahead of her, running somewhere, and every time her heart dropped into her stomach. They never saw her, thanks to the gloomy hallways.
It occurred to Daphne that it would be safer to take the servants' corridors, but then they were like a maze beneath the house, and the servants might well take their master's side on all of this.
On the grand stairs – the stairs she hadn't been down since she was first brought here, weeks ago –she caught a glimpse of the Marquess and Green, at the head of a troupe of armed footmen, striding out of the front door. She hunkered down behind the banister, heart pounding.
I daren't risk searching for another exit. I need to get out, and I need to get out now.
She racked her memory to think of what surrounded the house. It was fields, wasn't it? Countryside, thickly peppered with forests. She could hide in a forest, certainly. It wouldn't help that the Marquess and his men would have horses, and she would not.
She thought of them tracking her on horseback through the forest, hounds baying at their heels, with herself running before them desperately, like a hunted fox. Bile rose in her throat.
Move, girl, said a voice in her head, firm and no-nonsense. Move, now.
Biting back a whimper, Daphne got to her feet and hurried down the stairs. Her steps were louder on the marble foyer floor than they had been on the carpet, but then she was through the door and out into the glorious fresh air and sunshine.
Every instinct told her to stand still and enjoy it, to close her eyes and revel in the freedom and freshness of the world out here.
Fortunately, her brain was still working, and her brain was all too aware that she would be hunted if they knew she was out.
In front of her, wide stone steps led down onto well-raked gravel in front of the house, in which horses' hoofmarks and footprints could be clearly seen. After the gravel was a thin band of greenery and shrubs, then the forest rose high behind it, thick and imposing.
Somewhere to disappear.
Daphne took the steps two at a time, heading for the wooded area to the side of the house.
"Lass!" someone called, and her blood ran cold. She put her head down, running faster, and heard a horse's whinny. "Lass, wait! I mean ye no harm."
The voice was an unfamiliar one, and the accent was Scottish. Since there was no way she could reach the forest before being run down by a man on horseback, Daphne forced herself to stop, and turn slowly.
There was a single man on horseback behind her, wearing – to her amazement – a kilt and loose shirt. He had a bare sword hanging at his side, the blade glinting in the sunlight.
He had long gray-and-black hair, although he couldn't have been more than thirty, and kept it tied back in an untidy knot at the base of his neck. He might be considered handsome, in a grubby, rough sort of way. He frowned at her, tilting his head to one side.
"I thought ye were a servant, but now I am nae sure. Where is the Marquess?"
"I... I don't know, I'm sorry. I couldn't tell you. He left the house not long ago. I'm sure if you search, you'll find him," she babbled, backing away. Shooting a glance over her shoulder, Daphne estimated that she was twenty paces away from the shelter of the trees. "I really must go..."
"I mean ye nay harm, lass," the man interrupted. "What is yer name?"
"None of your concern," she snapped back, before remembering that insulting an angry Scottish man with a sword might be a bad idea.
He only gave a wry smile. "I see. Well, I'll tell ye mine. Me name is Brodie. We mean ye no harm, we only want to know where yer master is."
"And I said that I couldn't tell you. I would if I could, believe me. Now, unless you intend to behead an unarmed woman here and now, I am going," Daphne responded sharply, her nerve breaking. She turned, lifting up her skirts to run better, and sprinted towards the tree line.
Behind her, she heard the man muffle a curse, and spur the horse onto her.
If I can get into the trees, she thought, the horse will struggle to follow me.
It felt like a blessing when she slipped into the coolness of the greenery, foliage rustling around her.
After the bright sunlight, the greenish gloom of the forest took some adjusting to, but she ran blind anyway.
The going was immediately harder, the ground beneath her feet rutted and twisted, with tree roots rising up to catch her ankles.
Branches and thorns snatched at her dress and loose hair, and she heard tears from her gown. Her boots held up, though, and she heard the man on horseback slow his horse, cursing again, loudly.
She turned to look back, guessing that he would drop from the horse and run after her on foot, but so far there seemed to be no pursuit.
I'm going to get away.
Daphne turned to face forward again, and immediately ran face-first into a tree.
No, not a tree. A person, with a broad, firm chest at the perfect height for Daphne's face, but he might as well have been a tree, he was so unyielding.
She shrieked despite herself, bouncing backwards and immediately losing her balance.
A pair of arms shot out, grabbing her shoulders and steadying her.