Mad About The Baron (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 4) Page 6

  He should write a note, but he didn’t have time. She was running away too quickly. Once she reached the stables, it would be much more difficult to catch up with her. He needed to bring her back to the castle.

  He stepped onto the ledge, and his greatcoat billowed in the wind.

  Damnation.

  He glanced at the departing figure. The only good thing one could say about Veronique—Miss Daventry—was that she’d not headed toward the ocean.

  Lady Rockport’s brother, the Duke of Belmonte and his bride professed a strong love for the sea. Miles had no similar idealistic impressions of the largest deathtrap in the world.

  Not that running into the depths of the Highlands was a vast improvement. He tried to think about if the Highlands had any deadly bogs and marshes.

  Never mind.

  He’d nab her quickly.

  He’d evaded French spies in the war. He smirked. What was a thirty-foot wall?

  *

  Veronique missed Massachusetts, and the abundant maple and elm trees that bestowed conveniently perched branches to climb.

  Perhaps fleeing had been an imperfect idea.

  She sighed.

  She hadn’t spent two years corresponding with Lord Braunschweig to abandon him.

  Whatever prevented him from arriving must be important, and if so, she needed to help him.

  The bank account her stepbrother Arthur had opened for her on his last visit to the United States was not empty. She’d seen the surprise on the banker’s face at the ever-increasing amount of money. She’d invested it, growing her wealth further.

  Money brought comfort to her. Perhaps women were expected to marry to secure their fortunes, but she couldn’t depend on that. Men might find her appearance pleasing, but that didn’t mean they desired their unborn children to take on her skin tone.

  Her stepmother had warned her to expect men to only desire her as a mistress. Men might find her appearance alluring and wish to see her splayed on their ivory sheets, but finding a man to marry her, actually marry her, and not merely ensconce her in some city flat which he visited whenever his own wife and children grew tiresome, might be an unreasonable aspiration.

  She refused to abandon Lord Braunschweig and padded over the soggy ground. Mud, formed from rivulets of melting snow, squished around her boots.

  She slowed as she neared the flat stone building. Did the groomsmen sleep here? She would have to be quiet. She prayed the horses would be similarly restrained.

  The stable doors were locked.

  Drat.

  Her heart thudded, and she glanced back at the castle. Dark gray turrets, the stone seemingly chosen for its ability to resemble menacing storm clouds, stabbed the sky, and the tied together sheets from her window billowed in the wind, unhampered with her absence.

  A dark form clambered down the wall, and she gasped.

  The man moved lithely over the stone, his muscles strong enough to grip the rocky surface, and his feet sure enough to not lose his balance.

  There was only one reason for someone to descend the steep castle wall in so eccentric a manner.

  I’m being followed.

  Outrage coursed through her. Lucinda in The Princess in the Tower never had to deal with a person following her when she’d made her escape in Chapter Fifteen.

  She refused to allow someone to stop her now. She scoured the ground for a rock, and then, when she’d found one, smashed a window.

  Horses neighed, and she forced away the smattering of guilt. Lord Rockport could afford a new pane.

  She crushed the last glass with her stone and climbed through the window.

  The air inside the stables was mustier, the scent imbued with animals and dust and hay and…other things. Her nostrils flared involuntarily, and she hurried past stalls until she found Graeme, a calm, older horse whom she’d ridden earlier.

  Graeme was perhaps not quite the fierce stallion that Lucinda had taken in The Princess in the Tower, but though Lord Rockport likely had more pedigree-filled horses, she didn’t trust her ability to place a saddle on a strong steed, much less ride it.

  So Graeme it would be.

  At least she knew how to put a saddle on the horse. Writing The Stallion of Spain had taught her that.

  Veronique gave a longing glance at the side saddle, but selected one of the masculine variety. A mail coach could take her most of the way to London, but it was important to have a saddle she was unlikely to become stuck in, no matter how strong her preference for riding in a ladylike manner.

  She picked up the saddle and scampered to Graeme’s stall. There were some advantages to an older horse, and he seemed to not think it an indignity to have a leather object forced over him.

  She guided the horse from the stall and mounted him. She felt tall and ready for anything.

  She thought of the figure of a man clambering down the wall. She must have imagined him, though perhaps she truly would need to be prepared for anything.

  Veronique wrapped the cloak more tightly around her and urge Graeme to the road that led to the village.

  The castle was even lovelier in the distance. It was more imposing, and the outline looked almost threatening against the gray sky.

  I’m in Britain.

  She’d spent so many years dreaming about the country, and now she was finally here. She refused to spend her time confined in a castle with her matchmaking stepmother.

  Not when there was a perfectly good baron who adored her.

  The snow seemed thicker away from the coast, and the sunrays cast a tangerine and pink glow over the once white slabs. Veronique’s fingers itched to grab her quill to record the moment, but she couldn’t allow anyone the chance to find her.

  Once she reached the nearest posting inn, she would be able to board a mail coach.

  And then she would see Lord Braunschweig, and their spirits would be united.

  Chapter Eight

  Miles swore.

  He may have climbed mountains in Switzerland, but he’d never expected to clamber down a wall in Scotland. He gripped his hand onto the cold, rough stone. At least Gerard’s ancestors hadn’t decided to haul smooth slabs of limestone from Normandy. The wind slammed against his body, and he willed his fingers to not freeze as he moved downward.

  Some people who climbed advocated not looking down, but Miles never subscribed to that belief. Looking down was the best part: it was the closest he could come to actually flying, and he inhaled the crisp air, tinged with salt from the ocean. Waves swept onto the rocky shore, moving in a regular rhythm, as if in an incessant show of strength.

  He descended the tower, finally landing on the soggy ground. He rounded the moat and then sprinted across the stone bridge.

  Veronique should be looking at him in awe. Scaling a castle wall was not a task for everyone.

  The chit had vanished, and he shouted her name. Maybe if he roused people, they would help him search for her.

  The gales drowned his shouts, and he scowled.

  He tramped his way through thick, uncut grass. Gerard needed to get the farmers to have their sheep graze here.

  No woman should travel alone, but especially not one as pretty, yet distinctive looking as Veronique. Pondering all the problems that might befall her would be an interminable task.

  Returned soldiers roamed the country, their minds plagued by demons, and their bodies fed irregularly. Britain hadn’t coped well with the sudden surge of young men. There weren’t jobs, and Miles didn’t want to ponder what might occur if one of them happened across a naïve woman.

  British skies had a dreadful habit of pouring rain at frequent intervals, and huge puddles sat on paths even when it wasn’t raining. Wild animals roamed the territory, terrorizing even those travelers who hadn’t gotten lost in the landmarkless landscape, devoid of proper buildings.

  Miles sprinted toward the stables. Two people who’d managed to sneak down steep castle walls would be able to find their way back inside, even if return
ing meant using the actual front door and bribing the butler to not gossip about their entrance.

  The door was open, and he entered the stable. Hay crunched beneath his feet. “Miss Daventry!”

  A few horses neighed in response, and his heart sank.

  Bloody hell.

  He counted the horses, but one stall was empty.

  That chit.

  He inhaled. He could go back to the castle and rouse the others—but time was of the utmost importance.

  He took a muscular appearing horse, strapped a saddle on its back and led it from the stables.

  Rain drizzled, and he scowled. He’d better find her soon. He leapt onto the horse and urged it forward.

  England was south, and when he came to a fork in a road, he didn’t hesitate which trail to choose.

  He directed his horse down the road that led from the castle, winding around a steep hill.

  A thought occurred to him. If he clambered up the hill, it would provide him with a vista suitable for spotting a woman riding on a fast-moving horse.

  Miles sighed and urged his horse to still. The horse whinnied, athletic enough to find the process of standing less favorable to that of galloping. Perhaps he should have selected a horse in possession of a lower propensity to rushing about. He soothed the horse and tied it to one of the gnarly bushes that dotted the estate.

  He scrambled up slippery granite and mud, grasping onto moss, until he’d finally hauled himself to the top of the peak.

  Gray swirls of mist blanketed the valley, and Miles’s heart sank. He would have been better off simply following the path after all.

  Still, he refused to succumb to sentimental lamentations, and he stared longer at the mist, willing it to shift. The fog moved, but no rider was revealed. He gritted his teeth.

  Five minutes. He’d wait five minutes longer.

  The horse still whinnied, stomping its hooves into the muddy path, perhaps enraged that its Arabic ancestors had managed to sire offspring stuck in so cold and dismal a region.

  Miles had almost decided to turn around, when he saw a horse and rider trot underneath one of the gaps in the mist.

  Veronique.

  He was certain.

  She wore a dark cape and had somehow managed to ride astride, but her figure was too slender to belong to a man, and the sides of her dark dress billowed in the wind. She leaned her back forward, as if seeking to meld with her horse.

  Lord, she was beautiful, even riding one hundred feet below him.

  There was another, thinner line etched into the valley, and Miles wondered if it was a second road. It joined the path she traveled on later. If he could take that path and blockade the road she was taking—he grinned.

  He’d find her. He was certain of it.

  He beamed, happy for the first time this morning.

  He returned to his horse, and it galloped past supine sheep, unconcerned with the stone and mud. Nature’s attempts at barriers failed to daunt the beast, and Miles relaxed into the saddle.

  His brother, Marcus, was right to adore this region. He and his wife Rosamund enjoyed rambling, and academics lauded Marcus’s opuses on the natural world.

  Science never held the same sway for Miles, despite his appreciation for fresh air and pleasingly formed plants. Recording the life cycle of shrubs could not compete with recording the curtailment of human life. Instead he’d spread stories of Bonaparte’s cruelty and insatiable craving for power.

  Miles had interviewed British soldiers in makeshift hospitals tasked with halting Bonaparte, as other men howled when the surgeon sawed off their ill-functioning limbs, and others had succumbed to fevers, spending their final days in an incessant swirl of scorching heat and icy cold that only they felt.

  Miles had wandered the battlefields, trudging over red smeared snow. He’d visited Italian and Austrian towns, the stone buildings toppled, as bewildered peasants had sobbed.

  British citizens should clamor at the government when a battle went awry. The stakes, not only for British soldiers, but for Britain and the world itself, could not be ignored.

  When an army contractor allotted defective shoes to British soldiers, Miles had reported on soldiers sliding to their deaths, and of the heightened frequency of frostbite indicated with the sudden prevalence of surgeons chopping off toes.

  Once he caught up with Veronique, he would concentrate on his search for Loretta Van Lochen. Making increasingly awkward conversations with his newly given to romanticism brothers lacked appeal.

  He sighed. Reporting on Loretta Van Lochen in no manner rivaled those stories in importance. Love was a fairytale for most, and he had no sympathies for a woman who profited on the proliferation of those fantasies. Women would be far better served with fighting for equal education than whiling away their time reading of imaginary princes battling still more imaginary villains. In his experience, royals seemed the least likely to do any true fighting, and there were many problems in this world that were realistic to focus on.

  The sun swathed the path in light.

  By now the servants must have discovered Veronique and him missing from their bed chambers. Had they roused his brothers? Would they be searching for him? Or would they assume he’d simply helped himself to a horse for an early morning jaunt, and Veronique had vanished for a similarly explicable reason.

  She’d been clever to flee the castle at dawn. Most of the ton didn’t rouse until far later, and in such a massive castle, it would take a while to determine they were missing at all, particularly if the servants were of the discreet variety and did not panic at the sight of an empty bed.

  They reached the smaller road, and Miles urged his horse forward. Perhaps the narrow width rendered the road impassible in summer, but absurd amounts of leaves and thorns did not yet burst from the brambles.

  Soon he would overtake Veronique. Would she stop when she saw him? Or would she see his form only as indication that she should galvanize her horse to a gallop?

  What he needed was some impediment to ensure she halt. Hadn’t the Duke and Duchess of Alfriston met because his coach had stopped for a fallen tree? All he had to do was take out his knife, cut down some threatening looking branches, and he would be sweeping Veronique back to the castle in no time. He beamed, eager to see the expression on her face.

  “Whoa,” he murmured to the horse, and it halted. He clambered onto the soft soil and started to fasten the reins to a tree.

  He required something to inspire Veronique to slow her horse. Farmers or poachers likely already had some good traps. Perhaps a net was nearby? He gazed up at the tree, willing himself to find something, anything, which might halt her relentless march toward London.

  She would be appearing soon.

  Of course no net was to be found, and he sighed and continued to tie the reins to the tree. He moved back to tighten his knot, and then he—

  Fell.

  It took him a second to identify the action. The plunge knocked the breath from his lungs, and he plummeted downward.

  In the next moment mud squished beneath him, and dried twigs and leaves snapped and crunched in a cacophony of protest.

  Blast.

  Miles scrambled up.

  Or at least—he attempted to scramble up.

  The task of standing had never demanded much attention, but it now seemed to rank as one of the most difficult tasks in the world.

  His left ankle quaked beneath him, and pain shot through his body.

  Double blast.

  He inched his way up, clinging onto the slippery mud walls.

  His clothes were stained, and his always perfectly coiffed hair, a testament to his valet, must appear in a revolting state. He lifted his arms toward the ledge.

  I can’t reach it.

  I’m stuck.

  His heart toppled downward, and he shivered. How on earth had he found himself trapped in a hole in the middle of the Scottish Highlands?

  Perhaps the farmer or poacher who formed the hole would com
e check on it—but how long would such a wait be? He was cold, blast it.

  The sky was still above him, though the dark gray shade, present on every of the few occasions he’d allowed his brother to drag him to Scotland, was hardly enticing.

  He swallowed hard. What were the chances it might rain?

  This was Scotland, so the chances were significantly higher that it would rain than it would not.

  He cursed the fact he’d ever attempted to go after Veronique.

  A rustling sounded, and he turned his head toward the horse

  The horse that was moving away from him.

  He narrowed his eyes, as if the act of contracting his eyelids might right the appalling view.

  Though squeezing his eyelids together did manage to make the sight look less drastic, it did not hinder the horse from ambling away.

  “Whoa,” he called.

  He was good with horses. The horse would stop.

  The horse did not stop.

  “Whoa,” he called again, this time increasing his volume.

  He wasn’t certain if he’d managed to keep his voice from shaking. Perhaps it was just as well that Scotland was less populated than Mayfair, and no members of the ton would witness his distress.

  Unfortunately no members of the ton would be present to rescue him.

  He shook his head. That was nonsense. He was in no need of rescuing. In fact, he was here to rescue somebody. Quite a different manner entirely.

  The horse reached its previous speed and galloped toward the castle.

  Well.

  Miles scowled.

  He hadn’t liked the length of the journey from the castle, and that had been when he’d been sitting on somebody doing the walking. Now he was trapped in some beastly hole like a blasted deer.

  Damnation.

  His ankle ached. Perhaps the cold would distract him from the pain.

  If only he had some sort of beacon—not that the passersby swarmed this place.

  Though he’d wandered off the main road, and Veronique unlikely traveled through bushes when a perfectly fine path was available, she remained his best hope.

  Perhaps my only hope.