The Nightingale Legacy (Legacy 2)

Yes, the girl who’d taken poor Owen hostage and stolen North’s horse, the girl who had turned up on his doorstep frightened and in tears and exhausted and he’d given her tea that could have felled a field ox and offered her a scone that could have felled the same ox if the tea hadn’t done the job. He raced out of his bedchamber, pulling on his dressing gown as he ran.

8

HE TURNED THE knob, slammed into the door at the same time, and hurtled into the dark bedchamber.

“Miss Derwent-Jones—Caroline!”

He heard her breathing, harsh and deep, and he didn’t think, just rushed to the bed. There was faint moonlight coming through the far window, just a sliver of light really, but it was enough for him to see her sitting up in bed, stiff as the bedpost. She was staring straight ahead, seemingly at the soft pink–lacquered armoire opposite the canopied bed.

“What the hell is going on? Did you have a nightmare?”

He grabbed her without really thinking about why he did it or if it was even necessary, for she was here, obviously frightened, breathing as if she’d run all the way from Mount Hawke village to the castle. He pulled her against him and held her tightly, rubbing his big hands up and down her back, feeling the smooth softness of her beneath her clothing.

She eased against him, slipping her arms around his back, and said in a whisper against his shoulder, “I’m glad you came bursting in here. You see, there’s someone lurking behind the armoire.”

“What?”

Her mouth touched his neck. She whispered again, “There’s someone behind the armoire. I think it’s a man. I woke up and he was just standing there, staring down at me, breathing really hard. I screeched and he kind of gulped and hissed like a snake who knew his time was up, and ran back there.”

He gently pushed her away, saying quietly, “Stay down and don’t move.” He rose slowly, his eyes now adjusted to the shadowed bedchamber. He looked toward the armoire. Nothing. No sign of movement. No shadow that shouldn’t be there. He saw that there was space behind the armoire where someone could hide. A man? In her room? It seemed impossible, but nonetheless, he strode to the blasted armoire, grabbed the handles, and gave a violent pull. The armoire tilted toward him. He released it and watched it teeter back.

A yell. A man’s yell.

“Come out, you bugger! Now, damn you!”

It wasn’t a man who crawled from behind the armoire. It was Timmy, the maid, all of twelve years old, violent red hair, barely a patch of white skin showing through all the freckles on his face. Right now, he looked terrified, his mouth hanging open, ready to yell or scream or cry out in pain if the armoire were to fall on him.

North took a step back, crossed his arms over his chest, and stared down at the maid. “May I ask why you’re here in a lady’s bedchamber in the middle of the night?”

“I just cleaned this bedchamber, milord.”

“That’s very good. Why are you here now?”

Timmy the maid looked wildly about for help. There was none to be seen. He said, his eyes on his shoes, “The girl’s wot’s in bed over there near to broke me eardrums, milord, with ’er shrieks.” He lightly hit the heel of his hand against the side of his head to emphasize his words. “Loudest shrieks I ever ’eard from a girl, near to kilt me.”

“I believe I asked you a question, Timmy. Also, if she shrieked it’s because you scared the blasted, er, stuffing out of her.”

The boy looked up at his lordship, knew doom was near, and struggled to his feet and stared down at them. He just stood there, head down, waiting for punishment that would surely be bad, given what he’d done. Hadn’t he heard enough stories about his lordship’s father, that old geezer who had taken his cane to McBride’s backside when he just happened to say something about the weather and that dark cloud that always seemed to mill over his lordship’s head?

“I jest wanted to see ’er, milord, nuthin’ more, jest see ’er. I ’eard she was purty as them fat-tailed peacocks an’ I wanted to see ’er.”

“You what? Good God, boy, she’s just a girl, a female like any other female who lives around here. What the devil do you mean you wanted to see her? What the devil do you mean she looks like a fat-tailed peacock?”

Caroline said from just behind North, “He was standing over me, holding this candle. It was the heat from the candle that woke me up, and perhaps the shadowy light.”

Timmy sucked in his breath, craning around North so he could see her. “Cor’,” he breathed out reverently, “I ’ad to see ’er, milord. She’s so beautiful, like an angel, like a princess, like a, er, not really like a peacock’s tail.”

“That’s quite enough,” North said, sounding utterly revolted. “She’s just a female, nothing at all out of the ordinary. Now, you scared the very devil out of this angel and princess and peacock’s tail. What the blasted devil am I to do with you?”

“An angel, you say?” Caroline asked, crowding North out of the way.

“Aye, miss. Yer ’air’s jest like spun gold, an’ so bleedin’ thick and smo

oth and jest like silk an’—”

She turned to North. “Surely what he did isn’t so bad, my lord.”

“You’re only saying that because he’s flattering you shamelessly. Angel, ha! Go look in the mirror, Caroline, you’re a fright, an utter mess, your hair’s about your head like sticks and hay straws and—”