The Duke (Daughters of Dishonour #2)

Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

H aving spent the morning helping remove some of the blockage from the main thoroughfare, which had been completely covered in mud and several fallen trees, Kit supposed he was mildly pleased to return to the manor. The clearing seemed to go well, and as he went inside, he spotted his younger sister through the window. Flora might not have been occupied in many of the habits of younger women be it needlepoint, the pianoforte, or watercolours, but at least she wasn’t rolling around in mud or attempting to climb trees again. All in all, Kit felt grateful for these small mercies.

None of that would quite explain the nagging sensation that burnt at the back of his mind as he made his way through the manor, heading towards his library. Perhaps it was the dread of being confronted or chased after by the tiny Miss Keating, whose diminutive prettiness belied her will of steel. Through his mind, he played out all the names he might call her as she berated him for the bad weather—virago, shrew, harridan…

His library was empty when he entered it, save for a plate of sandwiches. With a hunger built on manual labour, Kit set about demolishing them. Perhaps, he thought idly, Miss Keating might have vanished or flown off rather like the fairy she appeared to be. Mayhap she might have been reclaimed in the night by her magical brethren.

A tentative feminine knock interrupted his vindictive imaginings, and with a sigh, suspecting who it might be, Kit called out, “Yes?”

The door swung open and to his surprise there were two people he did not know. The man looked like one of the folks who’d helped the staff clear part of the road, but Kit hadn’t asked his name. The girl stood uncertainty next to him, looking close to tears. Both were dressed in servant’s garb, but Kit was sure neither was employed by the estate. He wondered whether they were mad enough to want employment here. Surely if they were locals, they would have heard the rumours…

“Your Grace.” The manservant stepped forward and then glanced to his left. “I am sorry to bother you. My…” He indicated the girl beside him.

“Who are you?” Kit cut him off.

“Oh.” The man flushed a little. He had to be in his early twenties, of middling height but with pleasant enough features and a strong jawline. His accent said, clear enough, that he was from South London. An inkling of an idea of who they both might be was forming in Kit’s mind, but he heartily hoped he was wrong. “We’re from the Duke of Ashmore’s London home, and we journeyed down yesterday with Miss Keating?—”

“That’s what we’ve come about.” The girl suddenly stepped forward. Her face was tear-stained, and she looked even younger than the man. “My mistress—Miss Keating—she’s missing.”

Kit shifted farther forward in his armchair, disregarding his plate with a tiny amount of annoyance. “She cannot have gone too far as the bad weather would prevent anyone from?—”

“Your Grace,” the maid cut him off, ignoring entirely the rules of society as she moved forward, “we talked this morning?—”

“There we go then. She cannot have wandered too far. ”

“She heard about the cove and expressed a strong desire to go there. I thought it was fine, safe even but then…” She looked in fear at her fellow servant. “Clary said the men warned him about the tides.”

At the mention of the cove, Kit was on his feet. A strange, nervous energy beat through him. All the local inhabitants knew about the quickness of the tides into the cove, how it could appear shallow and easy to access, but within thirty minutes the place could be underwater—the waves surrounding anyone silly enough to enter. Far too many people had drowned there over the years, and there were even rumours of shipwrecks having met their fate against the lethal cliffs. Kit moved closer to the maid. “What’s your name?”

“Samson… Elinor.” She added her Christian name in a rush. On closer inspection the maid looked very young perhaps around no more Flora’s age. “I’m sorry my—Your Grace I should have stopped her.”

Stopping himself from saying that he doubted anyone would have the strength to gainsay Miss Keating, he focused instead on asking her maid the following question, “When did she leave? What time?”

“I—”

“Nellie, just tell His Grace,” the manservant said.

“Over two hours ago.”

“Heading towards the cove?” Kit asked. He was moving over to his discarded jacket and snatching it. The material was still damp with rain, but it had ceased to drizzle now, so it would dry.

Samson nodded.

“Saddle up a horse,” Kit told the manservant, “whichever comes to hand—I know the quickest route. But you go to my butler, Peterson, and rouse the rest of the men from this morning.” It wasn’t much but at least it would be a start. Kit hadn’t been down to the coves since last summer, and he couldn’t predict how the weather would be today—but a horrible image was playing through his mind, of finding Miss Keating’s body—of Elspeth floating face down in the water. “Go now.”

The manservant left. Kit turned to Samson. “Is there anything else I should know?”

“I don’t think so, Your Grace.”

“Make sure you get some hot water and food ready.” With that order, he was gone from the library, striding towards the stable.

Around him, there was a blend of chaotic servants calling and talking excitedly to each other, but Kit paid them no mind. He saw a saddled horse and scrambled up into the seat, turning and whipping the mount into action. Urging the horse forward out of the stable, and through the open pasture at the rear of the manor. A quick dash from his horse carried him towards the forest, the dew flying up around him as Kit tried to formulate the next best course of action in order to find Miss Keating. He could take the longer route around, encircle the cliffs, and descend slowly, more gradually. Of course, if the tides were now high, he wouldn’t get very far. However, if he went through the woods, and tried the more direct approach, and the tide hadn’t come in yet, he might be in luck and spot her.

“Damn it,” Kit swore, turning the horse into the forest. Trusting his luck hadn’t gone well for him in a long while, but perhaps he could place it on Miss Keating and hope for the best.

On reaching the edge of the cliff, Kit was relieved to see the tide had not reached as dangerous a level as he feared. Yet one look down into the tranquil inlay told him it was not long until it would be flooded, cutting off the pathways. His eyes swept over the cove as he tied the horse up and hurried down the uneven pathway, searching for the blasted chit. Why couldn’t she just stay inside and sulk? Probably because you pretty much told her the manor was haunted, you bloody fool—Kit scolded himself.

A sudden streaking rush of brown and cream darted into the waves, and Kit froze watching below him as the rescued dog played. She was down there with the pet. With a yell, he raised his hands over his head and started waving frantically as he hurried roughly over the pathway. His bad arm spasmed as he moved it. He must present a rather ridiculous image to the dog and girl below, but Kit was more focused on the sounds of the tide, and the ever-increasing suspicion that those noises were rising, and he wouldn’t reach her in time.

His anxiety must have shown, even at such a distance, as he saw Miss Keating’s movements cease in their leisurely pace and hurry forwards over the sands. She snatched up her skirts in response to his shouts, and once he was down on the sand, Kit was pleased to hurry towards her figure. If he could get her back onto the pathway, that would be something. It was not a comfort to note that the sand was already covered in a good two feet of water.

Miss Keating slowed her pace. Either she was tired, or she too was starting to notice they were in a basin that was rapidly filling with sea water.

“Hurry,” he yelled, his arms still raised. She was thirty feet from him now.

She bent and scooped up the dog in her arms, dropping her skirts as she did so. Her head looked towards the rocks and the cottage, but that route was already cut off by the waters.

A solid wave crashed into Kit, pausing him in his tracks, and turning his head towards the sea. They had less time than he thought. The bad spring weather seeming to make the change very abrupt.

Half running, half wading through the ever-rising water, Kit strode on. He needed to reach her, and then what? His mind asked. His right arm pained him, but he was certain he could swim. The question was, could she? There wasn’t enough time to get back to the pathway, so what should he do?

They slammed into each other, the water rising, her face flushed from exertion, the blasted dog whimpering in her arms .

“We need to get out of here.” He snatched up her elbow, pulling back towards the path.

“It’s gone,” she said as he turned and to his surprise when he looked, she was right, the uneven steps he’d hurried down were hidden beneath the waves that currently encircled their waists.

“What do we do?”

Kit whipped around his eyes studying the inlay, searching desperately for a safe vantage point. “How good are you at climbing?” he was already moving them forward, but he saw that her skirt was weighing her down. Without thinking of the consequences, he reached beneath the churning waves, and ripped the fabric away from her body. The movement jolted them both and the waters lifted a fraction. Their feet no longer touched the sand.

“Where are we going?”

“That way.” He gestured over the water. “Can you swim?” He was still holding on to her, supporting her amid the waves.

Her small face bobbed in front of him, but he saw her nod. “There’s a cave, can you see it?” Kit treaded water beside her and was pleased when she looked over and said, “Yes. We’ll need to climb.”

“Come on.” He started swimming, relieved she kept pace with him, towards the jagged cliffs. There was a partial, broken pathway, half buried in the side of the cliff, which led to a small cave within the rock face. In his youth he played there. Surely that should be a safe place to escape the rising tide. He hoped to God it would be high enough.

Through the water, their hands met, the waves were coming in at a pace now, rushing through the narrowed cliffs at the base of the cove, swirling and dragging them closer and closer towards the cliffs. The trick was going to be getting to the right place high enough on the ledge, hoping the water wouldn’t rise so far up that their supposed safety would actually trap them .

He heard her take a shuddering breath, the dog and her both peeking over the rolling waves.

“Try not to panic,” he called out, still holding on to her hand.

Not too far from them the waves lashed into the cliff with a power that Kit hadn’t imagined. That was another risk he hadn’t thought of—the water lifting them up and crashing them into the hard rock.

“Hold on to me.” He grabbed farther up her wrist, trying to move her despite the rolling water, so she would come to be shielded by him. “Leave the dog, we’ll pull him up when we’re on the ledge.”

She struggled, wriggling and pressing against him as she manoeuvred her way along his arm, clinging to him until he felt her arms around his neck.

Kit focused on the ledge. He was going to have to judge the distance, take the impact of the wave, and lever them both farther up the cliff front. Hopefully when he was carried forward, it wouldn’t be too much of a smashing motion, and he’d have time to grab and scramble upwards. The strength of the wave gathered around him, and Kit braced himself. It was now or never.

The momentum carried all three of them forward, and the pull of the sea’s waves, so powerful no human could resist them, slammed them into the rock with one almighty crash. Kit, who’d been prepared for the impact, swallowed a mouthful of dank salt water, coughing and spluttering but motioning, nonetheless, to hook a hand onto the jutted-out rock.

With all his efforts, he clung on, reaching out his free hand and started to climb. It wasn’t an easy ascend, not with the tightness of Miss Keating’s hold on him, and the knowledge that at any moment the sea might come crashing back into the pair of them. he felt the bite of the water on his legs, against his boots but he didn’t let that stop him.

“Go,” he told her once they were within touching distance of the ledge, and with a lift and shove, he pushed Miss Keating upwards and towards the relative safety of the cave. Five feet below him, the dog was circling—his round, brown desperate eyes fixated on Miss Keating. Kit let go of the cliff front with one hand and reached down towards the dog.

From above him, he heard Miss Keating say, “That’s it, Lancelot. That’s it.” For one brief moment, he wondered if she had named him that, and it made his heart swell to think of himself as her knight in shining armour.

The dog let out a bark and tried to jump at him, but it was too much of a gap. Not fancying the pet’s chances if he was left in the water, Kit looked up at Miss Keating, who was thankfully secure on the ledge. “Can you spare us some underskirt?”

For a moment he wondered if the girl would refuse, were he to reach the ledge she would not be wearing a great deal, but the danger of him trying to remove his coat on the cliff front seemed too great. A moment passed and a large square of ripped white fabric appeared over the side which Kit snatched up. Slowly he lowered it down to the hound, hoping to catch the rogue dog up in the material. Minutes stretched by whilst Kit wondered at the fruitlessness of his endeavour when suddenly the small hook caught around the dog, and he managed to yank him upwards out of the water. The wet dog lay in his arms, before emitting a muted little cry.

“Yes, you and me both,” Kit said.

“Pass him up.” Miss Keating was leaning over the edge, both of her hands dangling down for the dog.

With the water nipping at his heels, Kit lifted and then practically threw the hound upwards, grateful when he saw Miss Keating’s arms close around the soggy fur and disappear. Heaving out a sigh, Kit started to scramble up the remaining distance. His body ached as he moved, his bad arm screaming at the movements, the nature of climbing was not an action he took regularly—he supposed it was a little like some of the manual labour he did around the manor—but the chill of the water added an element he did not enjoy.

Still, he was pleased when the route was not as hard as he’d pictured, and when he pulled himself up and over the ledge, it was to find Miss Keating catching hold of his hand and pulling him into the shelter of the cave. To his own great surprise, he was seized with an urge to embrace her—presumably, an emotion based out of a relief. It came as a greater shock when Miss Keating threw her arms around his neck, pressing herself against him. As much as he tried to think of this as nothing more than soothing Flora when she was distressed, it did not feel remotely similar—his hands moved to glide down her back in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. But he realised as he did so, the gesture was not remotely brotherly.

With her head still nestled against his chest, he heard Miss Keating ask, “What if the water reaches us?”

Exacting himself from her grasp, Kit edged near to the ledge once more whilst the waves were beating ferociously against the rocks they had not as yet appeared to climb any higher. “We must pray it doesn’t.”

His eyes moved around the dank cave, taking in the small narrow space that was to be their sanctuary until the waves drew back. There was not very much room, and when he looked at her, at Miss Keating, shivering and hugging her arms to her chest, he saw how delicate and half-dressed she was—her yellow day dress’s skirt ripped away, and the bottom of her chemise torn to rescue the dog. She had removed her shoes in order to empty them of water, and for one long moment Kit stared at her feet, her toes the smallest and most feminine thing he could ever remember seeing. Why had no poet ever written a ballad to a woman’s foot? Presumably because they had never seen Miss Keating’s perfect toes.

Pulling off his own wet jacket, he hung it over a rock. “I think we are going to have to stay a little closer together, Miss Keating. ”

Her rounded brown eyes narrowed a little, and he expected her to argue, but she gave a decisive nod. “If we are going to do that, I think you had better call me Elsie. Everyone does.”

“Kit.” The noise was not entirely natural, and for a moment, Elsie looked a little perplexed.

“Is it a shortening?”

“Aye for Christian.”

She stepped forward. “We are to huddle?”

“My coat will dry I hope, and then we can use it for warmth. In the meantime, you… well…” Kit tried to think of the right way of putting it.

“The time for formality might have slipped away from us.”

When he looked up, he was surprised to see that Elsie looked as if she was trying not to laugh. It was then that he thought, whilst she might be one of the prettiest girls he’d seen in many a long year. She had the loveliest and smallest feet imaginable. Yet she might also be one of the strangest people he had ever encountered, which was something given Kit lived in what was widely agreed upon to be a haunted house.