The Bride of Windermere Read online

  They retreated back the way they came, and Kit searched the walls on the left for the marks she’d scored in the dirt at eye level as they came through the first time. The torch was starting to sputter though, and it was difficult to see. Kit wanted to get back to the room where Hugh was. Perhaps they would find another torch there.

  She hoped desperately that the torture chamber would be a better place to try to defend themselves. Perhaps they could find their way to the storage room door if they first got to the room where Hugh lay. Kit was not averse to trying the door again, or even standing at the top of the stairs and yelling her lungs out.

  The sense of being followed continued even as they entered the chamber where Agatha still sat hideously, hanging by the chains in the wall. No ominous pursuer entered after them and Kit looked at Emma, wondering if she’d imagined having been followed.

  “I don’t think there is any other way out,” Kit whispered as she placed the dwindling torch in the rough wall sconce. “We’ll be without light soon—let’s see if we can find anything else that will burn.”

  Hugh lay silently on the ground, and Kit knew he was still alive only by the rasping sounds of his shallow breathing. His lips were dry and cracked, and he was covered with sores. One eye was swollen shut and crusted with dried blood, and Kit was unable to tell whether the eye was still in its socket. Bones were probably broken, and she was afraid to move him for fear of hurting him further.

  “D‘you think anyone will know to look for us down here?” Emma asked, keeping her eyes averted from Hugh Dryden. She didn’t know how Lady Kathryn could stand to touch him, to gently smooth back his hair.

  “Of course,” Kit replied shakily. “I mean, certainly. Sir Alfred knew we were working in the storage room, didn’t he? And he’s bound to miss us soon.”

  “But if the door’s locked...and hidden from sight—What’s that?” Emma gasped, her fears increasing with the precipitous fading of their one measly torch.

  “Dear God,” Kit whispered, “it’s a rat.” She wished she had her sling.

  “I can’t find anything in here that will burn, milady. These old rags lying about are all too damp.”

  “Well, we can tear up our skirts and our shifts if we must,” Kit replied absently, eyeing the rat in the flickering light. She bent down and unlaced her shoes.

  The rat crept close to Hugh’s outstretched toes and Kit let her shoe fly, hitting the rat squarely. It skittered away to hide in some dark corner. Kit kept the other shoe in her hand and at the ready. Emma was already tearing her skirt into strips to add to the flame of the torch.

  “I’m glad I’ve been wearin’ my oldest rags to the castle for the cleaning.”

  “I’ll give you a new gown, Emma. Two of them!” Kit replied quietly as she began to tear strips from her own shift.

  “Sir Alfred is bound to be investigating the storage room door right now. Even as we—”

  Both women shrieked as the torch fell to the ground and was deliberately stamped out. The darkness was absolute, and the chill in the air was even more pronounced now that they were unable to see.

  Neither Kit nor Emma breathed or moved a muscle other than to clasp each other tighter. They had seen a dark booted foot trounce on their only source of light, but it had happened so quickly and so unexpectedly that they saw nothing of their assailant. They heard the laugh, though. A man’s laugh, deep and throaty. Unmistakably wicked and cruel, echoing horribly against the walls of the tunnels.

  Kit pulled at Emma’s waist, and the two women sidled back towards the opposite entrance. She moved cautiously, frantically trying to remember the exact location of the objects in the room that could trip her up.

  “I felt, from the moment I met you, that you were a resourceful woman,” the eerie voice whispered. Philip’s voice. “A worthy...consort...not at all like my weak, little Clarisse.” That awful, quiet laughter grated on Kit’s ears again, and then she bumped into something at knee level and lost her balance. She fell.

  Emma screamed and fell away with a loud thud. Kit was left alone in the darkness to wonder what had happened to silence her companion so abruptly.

  A cool hand crept up her ankle, and even as Kit was aware it could be Emma’s hand, she was reviled by the touch. Instinct told her it belonged to Philip, not Emma. She pulled away, but he was fast. He grasped her ankle and yanked, knocking her flat on the ground and effectively stopping her retreat. Kit struggled to turn and crawl away, but Philip managed to pin her down, his sense of awareness in the dark much better developed than hers.

  “If your doting husband ever finds you, he’ll never want you again,” the harsh voice whispered through the dark. “I’ll make certain of that.” He wrapped his hand around Kit’s hair tightly enough to make her cry out. Did he intend to maim her as he had done to Hugh?

  She kicked—and missed any worthwhile target. But the move brought her leg into contact with the knife in her pocket. She had forgotten about it, but it would do now, she thought, forcing herself to be calm. Kit increased her struggles with both legs and one arm, reaching into her pocket for the knife. Then it was in her hand, and her fingers tightened securely around it.

  Philip held her down with all his weight, but he stilled suddenly and pulled away from her for an instant to listen. “Damn his hide!” He spat the words.

  Kit could hear nothing but their combined breaths and she panicked, certain Philip was aware of the knife. She struck quickly with the blade, and he screamed.

  He grabbed her and yanked her up so abruptly that she dropped the little knife. Kit tried to reach down for it, but Philip yanked her hair brutally. “Oh, no you don’t!”

  Then suddenly, with a groan of frustration, he shoved her. Hard. She lay still, knowing she’d wounded him, yet awaiting his next attack. Then there was loud breathing, rasping and muttering...and the sounds were receding. He was going away! Probably to light a torch, she told herself, and braced for the bright light to blind her momentarily.

  Yet nothing happened. The sounds of Philip’s retreat continued and then dissipated somewhere beyond, in the tunnels. There were other sounds now, confusing, muted sounds and Kit hoped to God that Philip wasn’t going to attempt another attack.

  Kit reached out for Emma, certain she couldn’t be far. Inching her fingers across the deathly cold, packed earth, Kit finally found flesh. Emma’s warm flesh. She moaned when Kit touched her, but Kit hardly heard the sound. The other, very distracting noises were coming from the short tunnel behind her, beyond which were the stairs to the storage room. A faint light cast ghostly shadows on the walls of the vile chamber, growing stronger and brighter as it rapidly drew near.

  “In here!” It was Wolfs voice, and Kit rejoiced. She looked over at Emma, who was just coming round.

  “My God, Kit, are you all right?” Wolf dropped the torch on the ground and crouched down next to his wife. She was covered with blood and sheer terror seized his heart.

  “Wolf—” her voice trembled in spite of her effort to sound calm.

  “Go after him, Alfred,” Wolf ordered harshly. Then he turned to Kit and spoke in a gentle, controlled voice. “Where are you hurt, sweetheart? Tell me where he cut you,” His hands were actually shaking.

  “I cut him, husband,” Kit said, shuddering.

  “Please Kit, don’t jest now.” He pulled her against his chest, cherishing her, vowing never to let her out of his sight again. “Tell me—”

  “I don’t know how badly he’s wounded, but I know I cut him. It was Philip.”

  He pulled away from her momentarily to study her face. She was pale, and her eyes bore a haunted look. “You mean this isn’t your blood?”

  “Nay, Wolf. Philip suffered the damage,” she said grimly. Her voice broke then. “And Hugh. He’s here.”

  And then, for the second time in her life, she fainted in her husband’s arms.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Wolf carried Kit out of the dark hole as servants swarmed behind him, helpi
ng Emma Juvet up the stairs and tending Hugh Dryden. Anger and frustration seethed just below the surface of his calm facade. He reached the storeroom—there was no doubt now it had been locked intentionally—and continued walking through the great hall until Nicholas Becker caught up with him. Together, they mounted the next flight of steps and moved through the gallery toward the duke’s chambers.

  Nicholas was shocked by Kit’s bloodied appearance. “How is she?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Wolf replied dismally. “Before she fainted, she told me she was unhurt.”

  “But the blood—”

  “She said it was Philip’s,” Wolf replied. “She stabbed him.”

  “Good for you, Kit,” Nicholas gave a grim smile of appreciation, even though she was still limp and unconscious in Wolfs arms. “How badly?”

  “No idea. She fainted before she said much.”

  “I’ve seen Hugh,” he said, his stomach turning, just thinking about what had been done to the man. “It’s unspeakable, the things your butcher cousin did...”

  “Summon the gardener and priest to tend to him.”

  “I’ve already sent for them,” Nicholas said. “And I’ve posted guards at the entrances to the underground caverns.”

  “Did you see Alfred?”

  “No, but Chester went down with me through one of the outside entrances. We scoured one of the passages and came up right behind you,” Nicholas explained. “Chester and Claude are still down there helping Alfred to comb the tunnels,” Nick replied. “It may take some time—”

  “Send more men,” Wolf shouldered open the door to his chamber and went in. “Search every possible hole and find out if there’s a possibility of other escape routes—routes Stephen would be unaware of. I want Philip tonight. One way or another.”

  “But Wolf, Stephen showed us all the exits! And we had them under guard before you even got down the dungeon steps. We should have caught the monster—”

  “In twenty years, my cunning cousin has likely added to his cavernous network as well as making new, less accessible exits.” He laid Kit gently on the bed and smoothed a few wisps of hair back from her face. “Either he managed to escape somehow—through an exit unbeknownst to Stephen—or my cousin remains down there, somewhere under the castle,” Wolf said, his voice filled with a quiet bitterness. “Waiting, like a foul spider in his lair.”

  Nicholas chewed out a curse in his native tongue. “I’ll see if there’s a chance he got out some other way,” he said as he left the room.

  Wolf sat down next to his wife and leaned over her. He pressed a soft kiss to her ear and her temple, and waited for her to regain consciousness. A niggling fear worked its way into Wolf’s mind that Kit would never truly awaken again. That when she opened her eyes, the shock of her experience in that underground dungeon would render her stuporous, like his mother.

  But Kit had spirit. Wolf knew Kit had a strength and tenacity his mother never possessed. Mayhap if Margrethe had had some of Kit’s strength, she wouldn’t have given up on life, given up on him. “Come back to me, love,” he whispered. “Don’t slip away from me now that I know you’re mine.”

  He framed her face with his big hands, and Kit winced when he touched a fresh bruise on her jaw. That was a good sign, wasn’t it? Kit stirred a bit more, but didn’t awaken. Wolf peeled her bloodstained gown from her skin and discarded it, all the while, praying silently that she would return to him.

  “Kit, sweetheart,” Wolf prodded quietly. “Open your eyes. Wake up for me. You’re my life, you know. Windermere and the rest of it...” His voice was unsteady, and he let out a ragged breath. “It’s nothing without you.”

  When she was undressed, he lay down next to her, pulled a cover over them and wrapped himself around her limp body to warm her.

  She moaned.

  “Come on, my love,” he kissed her forehead, her eyes, her lips. “Come on...”

  Another moan and she was moving her legs. When her eyes opened, there was a look of panic, but it was quickly gone. In its place was recognition and relief. And when her memory returned, she began to tremble, as he had known she would.

  “Kit?”

  A violent shudder overtook her.

  “It’s over. You’re safe now. I won’t let anything happen to you—”

  “Where’s Philip?” she asked. “Is he—”

  “Not yet,” Wolf replied. “Nicholas and the rest of the men are still searching. He can’t be far.”

  “And Hugh,” she whispered, curling closer into her husband’s warmth. “What about poor Hugh?”

  Wolf let out a long, somber breath. “He’s alive. Barely.”

  “Oh, Wolf—”

  “Philip won’t have the opportunity to harm anyone else, I promise you.” He kissed her above her ear. “When I think how close he came...”

  She shuddered again.

  “Are you all right. Sprout? Are you sure you‘re—”

  “Hold me.”

  She still trembled but the horror and revulsion of Philip’s deeds were kept at bay by the sensation of her husband’s strong arms closing around her, his powerful legs anchoring hers. “Aye, love,” he said. “I’ll hold you. All night and all day if necessary.”

  “You told me Philip was dangerous,” she breathed. “You said he wasn’t to be trusted... D-did you know? Did you realize then what he was capable of?”

  “I knew.”

  “Really. I’m fine, Wolf,” Kit insisted later as she wrapped herself in the blanket. “Go with Nicholas and find Philip.”

  Wolf hesitated. There was nothing he’d like better than to go out with his men and hunt Philip down, but he was reluctant to leave Kit on her own.

  “You’ve had a terrible shock—”

  A timid tapping at the door interrupted him, and Wolf walked away from Kit to open it.

  “...er, Your Grace,” Maggie stammered, “I brought up some bathwater. I saw Lady Kathryn before and...”

  Wolf opened the door wide and admitted the girl, who came in and arranged the tub, then poured the hot water into it.

  “Please, Wolf,” Kit said. “Go on. I’ll be all right. I’ll bathe and wait for you here.”

  Wolf pulled on his doublet and sheathed his sword and dagger, still debating on the advisability of leaving her. He knew all his men would be involved in the search, except for whoever Nick had assigned to sit with Hugh. He looke over at Maggie, who had seemed more trustworthy than any of the servants and decided to go. But just for an hour or two.

  “In case of trouble, you can call to the guard in Hugh’s room,” Wolf said. “I won’t be gone long, Kit.”

  “I know you won’t.” She smiled and knelt up on the bed for his kiss.

  “I love you, Sprout.”

  “Just come back to me quickly,” Kit whispered, clinging to him tightly for a moment and releasing him. Then he was gone.

  “It’s ready, Your Grace,” Maggie said, indicating the tub. She had set out Kit’s scented soap, towels and clean clothes for afterward.

  Kit sat down in the hot water and prepared herself to wait.

  “Seems you’ve got a few more scrapes and scratches, Your Grace,” Maggie said, using a wet cloth on Kit’s back, careful of the yellowing bruise on her shoulder. She seemed to want to say more, but didn’t press it. Kit was too preoccupied to give it much thought.

  “Where is Emma?” she asked.

  “Gone home,” Maggie replied. “With her husband.”

  “Is she all right? Did any—”

  “Nay, she’s well,” Maggie reassured Kit. “Only shaken up a bit is all.”

  “I’d like to see her—see for myself that she’s all right.”

  “But the duke, Your Grace,” Maggie protested. “He wouldn’t be wanting you to leave here. Not now. Not ‘til—”

  “No, I don’t suppose he would.”

  Maggie sighed with relief, and Kit finished her bath without further talk of going anywhere. She helped Kit towel herself dry and
argued only a little when Kit insisted on dressing in a presentable gown rather than her nightclothes.

  “I won’t sleep until my husband returns, anyway,” she said, “so I might as well be properly dressed. When they bring Philip back, I’ll...”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Maggie replied. “Would you be wanting me to find you some supper? Old Darby’s like to have something warming in the kitchen...”

  “Supper?” Kit hadn’t thought about food at all until that moment, and she realized with some surprise that she was famished. “Yes, I suppose I’d like that, Maggie.”

  “All right, then,” the maid said, gathering up the wet towels and Kit’s soiled gown. “I’ll be back before you know it, my lady.”

  It seemed unusually quiet to Kit, now that she was alone, and it began to unnerve her. She wondered how long it would take before Maggie returned, and found that she was anxious for the girl to get back. As she sat brushing her hair, a door closed somewhere within her hearing and startled Kit so she nearly jumped off the chair. The shadow she cast in the flickering candlelight brought a gasp to her lips and sent her heart pounding.

  This was ridiculous, she thought, jumping at every noise and shadow. Philip was certainly not lurking about these chambers, waiting to do his worst. But the very thought of Philip sent a new onslaught of chills and without even thinking about it, she went over to the chest and rummaged through the items neatly stacked until she found her small dagger—one that Rupert had given her years before.

  Only after Kit had sheathed the dagger and slipped it into her bodice did she feel more secure. Though she did her best to convince herself that Philip was nowhere near, she didn’t care to encounter that villain again, weaponless.

  Another door closed somewhere, and Kit heard footsteps approaching. Expecting to find Maggie on her way back with a tray, Kit opened her chamber door and stepped out to see Lady Christine Wellesley coming towards her.

  “Lady Kathryn!” Christine said, taking Kit’s arm. “I just heard of your terrible ordeal. How glad I was to learn of your rescue before that fiend, Philip was able—”