Chapter 26
Twenty-Six
Tristan pushed aside the ledgers he had been poring over with a growl of frustration.
He could not make the numbers take root in his mind.
A face kept appearing. He realized he had been sitting behind his desk, staring into space.
Staring into the memory of a pair of eyes.
Luscious lips, moist and parted in overwhelming want.
The house proclaimed her absence. Even if she had not told him she was going, he could tell.
Tristan stood, slamming closed a statement of account that could not hold his attention any longer.
He stormed out of his office, angry at himself, at his weakness.
At his need. The house could not contain him.
Could not satisfy him. There was something missing from every room; it felt incomplete.
Standing in the long gallery, he looked out at the rising sun and knew where he needed to be.
The door leading to the stables swung in the wake of his passage, bouncing open again with the force with which it had been cast aside.
His horse tossed its head, coming awake with the instinct of an animal, sensing its master’s need.
Tristan did not wait for a stable hand but set about the task of saddling.
The morning broke clear and golden over Duskwood. The rain of the past days had washed the countryside clean. Every leaf glittered with dew. Christine breathed it all in—the smell of damp earth, of wild mint crushed underfoot, of a sky still rinsed with dawn.
She had left the great house early, before the household had quite woken, determined to walk the mile and a half to the village on her own, claiming her freedom while she could.
Before the adventure of being a duchess is over, and I am discarded. To do what? Go where? I know that Selina will take me in without hesitation. But I do not want to be a burden to her, especially when her pregnancy has been so trying.
It seemed wrong to Christine for her to become an additional burden on Selina’s shoulders.
Somehow, life as her sister’s companion—beloved, yes, but useless—was no longer the salvation it had once seemed.
She thought about Charles as she walked, wanting to know that he was alive and well, hiding, but otherwise wanting to reach out to his sister.
But mostly she thought about Tristan. Images of him returned to her again and again. Memories of their shared bodies. Of the sensations he had inspired in her. Of his eyes, softened by desire.
If I had the choice between never seeing Charles again so that my betrothal and marriage with Tristan can be prolonged? Do I choose to betray family, or my heart?
The path to Duxworth curled downhill through beech and ash, the kind of wood where sunlight dappled and rabbits startled across the verge.
She swung her bonnet by its ribbons and felt, for the first time in years, the delicious solitude of being unwatched.
At Gillray House, she had not been permitted beyond the square of the garden except to fetch or carry.
Even the air there had felt owned. Here, it belonged to her.
She was humming softly, a tune the Thynne girls had sung at Duskwood, when the creak of wheels broke through her thoughts.
A cart rattled along the lane behind her, the horse’s hooves clipping steadily.
She stepped to the verge, ignoring the long, wet grass, and looked over her shoulder with a bright smile. The cart drew level, then slowed.
“Beg pardon, miss,” called the driver, a thick-set man with a neck like an oak stump, “would you be Lady Christine Davidson, by any chance?”
Christine stopped. The name on his tongue struck oddly, too precise for a stranger. The man’s companion, a wiry fellow with a scar down his cheek, jumped from the cart before she could answer.
“Why do you ask?” she said, drawing herself up.
The first man smiled without warmth. “Got business with you, my lady. Best come quietly.”
Christine stepped back. “I think not.”
Her voice wavered. She felt the scratch of blackthorn branches from the hedge behind her, interwoven tightly, impenetrable as brick. The scarred man moved fast, reaching for her arm. She twisted free, her heart slamming against her ribs.
“Unhand me!”
He grinned, showing yellow teeth, crooked as old gravestones.
“Hear that? She’s spirited.”
The driver climbed down, and for a moment she saw the gleam of something beneath his coat—a cord, or rope.
Panic iced her veins. She turned to run, but the lane was narrow and she was hemmed in by the two men and the cart.
Then came the thunder of hooves. Tristan’s voice cut through the air like a thunderclap.
There were no words, just a roar of rage akin to one of the old gods awakened.
Both men spun round. The Duke of Duskwood bore down on them astride a black hunter, coat flung open, hair wind-tossed. Before the driver could draw breath, Tristan was out of the saddle. His fist caught the man square across the jaw. The sound of impact echoed like a gunshot.
The scarred man lunged, a knife flashing in his hand.
Tristan sidestepped adroitly, seized his wrist, twisted, and the weapon clattered to the ground.
A second blow to the gut doubled the fellow over, a third sent him sprawling in the mud.
The first ruffian scrambled up and bolted up the lane, his companion stumbling after him.
Tristan did not follow. He stood breathing hard, his shirt darkened with sweat at the throat, his eyes still on the lane as if daring the men to reappear.
He turned to her then, and the fury in his face was worse than the violence inflicted on the assailants. “You might have been killed.”
“I was not,” she said, though her knees still trembled.
He raked a hand through his hair. “You walked alone into the countryside with no escort and no carriage. Do you not know the dangers of highwaymen in this day and age?”
“I was not attacked by highwaymen,” she countered, voice trembling, “they asked for me by name.”
“That makes it worse.”
“It makes it different,” she insisted, “they were looking for me, not my purse. These were no common highwaymen. They were after me! You saw them; they did not try to rob me.”
His jaw tightened. “All the more reason you should not have left the estate.”
“I had appointments in the village.” Christine’s voice wavered, the shock of the event lingering despite her efforts to rise above them.
“Appointments!” His voice rose in an infuriating explosion
A rook burst from a nearby tree.
“Good God, Christine, do you think I would care about your arrangements with the vicar when men are…”
He broke off. Christine was trembling, though she tried to hide it. Tristan exhaled, a short, sharp breath. His shoulders relaxed as though he were putting aside a weight.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
Christine shook her head, not trusting her voice. Tristan stepped closer, enfolding her in his arms. She settled against his chest, lacking the strength to pretend that she was not affected. She closed her eyes.
Just for a moment. I will pretend, for just a moment, that he is truly my fiancé and that his compassion is born of love. Pretend that I know what that feels like.
“Come,” he said quietly, stroking her hair, “you’re shaking. I’ll take you back.”
“No,” she shook her head against his chest.
“No?”
“I will not go back now. I intend to keep my word to the people of Duxworth.”
She wanted nothing more at that moment than to let Tristan protect her, to feel the safety of his arms and the stone walls of Duskwood.
But duty was a weight about her shoulders.
Not just to her, the position she had been forced into, but had accepted.
Not just because she had promised to do something and did not want to let down the people who had equally promised a moment of their time.
But because she did not want Tristan to think ill of her.
I am not sure that he would. But he is so strong. I want to show myself to be as strong. To show him that I am capable and dignified.
“They do not deserve it,” Tristan said harshly.
Christine lifted her head. It was the hardest thing she’s ever had to do. But the reward for sacrificing the sound of his heartbeat was to look into his eyes. He gazed down at her with compassion and concern lighting his features.
“You may accompany me, if you insist,” she said, her voice trembling, “but I will not be cowed into running home because two cowards thought to make off with me.”
She hoped that the outward appearance of courage would translate into the real thing. She did not feel brave, only scared to the tips of her toes. So terrified at the notion that someone out there wished her terrible harm, that she wanted to cry and curl into a ball.
He stared at her. “You are infuriating.”
“So you have told me.”
As few words as possible were the only way to manage her fear.
Nothing that would give away a tremor or tear.
The silence stretched between them, broken only by the rustle of the breeze through the hedges.
Then Tristan muttered an oath. He turned to his horse and swung back into the saddle, then extending his hand.
“Very well,” he said, “if you are determined to walk into the lion’s den. We will ride into it, together.”
She hesitated, then placed her hand in his. He lifted her up before him, the movement swift and sure. The horse snorted, stamping as Tristan turned it toward the village. She sat side-saddle in front of Tristan. His arms enclosed her as he held the reins. His heartbeat was returned to her.
At first, she kept her back straight and held the pommel with both hands. But the lure of his broad chest, a perfect pillow for her cheek, was too strong. She let herself relax, craving the security of a strong man. Something that she’d never had.
“You are trembling,” he said after a moment.
“Because I was nearly carried off by villains,” she retorted, putting fire into her voice, not wanting to seem like a shivering damsel.
Fake the fire and hope it will ignite within me. I will act the part of the brave duchess even if I am just a cowardly, trembling one.
“If trembling is the only effect, you are braver than most.”
They rode in silence for a time. The landscape opened before them: fields gold with early wheat, cottages smoke-crowned, the church spire rising pale against the sky. Then Tristan turned into a narrow lane that wound up a hill between sloping meadows of cloud-like sheep. Christine frowned.
This is not the way to Duxworth. At least it is a much longer route, up into the hills.
“You are taking us to Duxworth?” she asked.
“This road eventually connects to Church Street; it brings us into the village from the north.”
“Not the quickest route.”
“No.”
“You think I will change my mind if you drag out our journey?”
“I simply wish to extend our ride,” Tristan responded stiffly.
“Why?” Christine lifted her head, pulling herself away from him.
“Because I would like to give you a chance to calm yourself before we arrive,” he said.
“Oh.”
“And…”
Christine waited, looking at him, seeing his face harden and his eyes hood.
One word, and he thinks he has given away more than he can afford.
“And?”
“And…I wish to be in your company for longer,” he finally said.
Christine looked at him, shifting gently with the walking pace of the horse. Finally, he looked back.
“That sounds…pleasant,” Christine said.
Proximity to him was easing the frantic beating of her heart, or at least making it beat frantically for a very different reason.
“Good. This is my favorite ride in the district. We will pass an ancient grove of oaks with a standing stone in the heart of it. I came here many times as a boy, as soon as I learned to ride.”
“I should like to see it,” Christine answered.
“What of your appointments?” Tristan asked.
Is this a ruse to get me to forsake my appointments in the village? All because he holds grudges against them? No, I think he is resigned to that. He simply wanted to share with me a place he loves.
“We will come back afterward. I would like you to show me,” Christine said.
They continued along the ridge of a hill and down towards the village, emerging behind the parish church.
When they reached the edge of the green, Tristan dismounted and helped her down.
The villagers paused in their morning labors, watching.
A blacksmith straightened from his anvil, and the innkeeper’s wife wiped her hands on her apron.
To them, the Duke of Duskwood was a rare and half-mythical creature; to appear on horseback with his lady was cause for every curtain to twitch.
Christine felt the weight of a hundred eyes, but she lifted her chin.
“You need not scowl so fiercely,” she murmured, “they’ll think you mean to hang someone.”
“I might,” he said under his breath, “if I discover who sent those men.”
“Then find out. But not before I’ve spoken to the vicar as I promised.”
He gave her a long look, equal parts exasperation and reluctant admiration.
“Lead on, Lady Duskwood. God help the poor fool who tries to stop you.”
She smiled, just a little, and together they crossed the green toward the church, sunlight spilling on the path before them.
She felt a chill at the notion that someone had tried to arrange for her abduction.
There was a prime candidate for it, but Christine would not let that person intrude on this moment.
She walked in warmth, holding Tristan’s arm. Within, she was warmed by the knowledge that he had chosen to be in her company.
He searched for me. He wanted to be with me.
That thought warmed her more than the loveliest summer day.