The Earl's Enticement (Castle Bride Series) by Collette Cameron Page A
Authors: Collette Cameron
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wrinkled her forehead. What was she thinking? Her gaze dropped to the ground, then met his.
“ Yvette’s not mentioned anything about a visit from you.”
“And she apprises you of all her business?” He wiped his damp palms on his coat. He couldn’t take much more of this.
“Miss Ferguson, I’m warning you. Release me, immediately.”
He’d go mad if she left him in here.
She cocked her head. “ That, I cannot do.”
Had he given himself away? Could she sense the terror building in him? Hear it in his voice? See it etched on his face and simmering in his eyes?
“I do hope you find your accommodations comfortable, my lord .” Her emphasis on the last two words clearly revealed her skepticism.
She looked past him. “There’s food, wine, and wash water on the table.”
He followed her gaze to a small table nestled in the corner. “What, no caviar? Truffles? Champagne?”
A stack of rat-chewed books were piled atop the table, along with a bulging linen cloth. A worn skirted armchair and two buckets were the only other items in the chamber.
His mouth twisted into a sneer. “No tooth powder, shaving brush, or razor strap?”
“No. You’re not on holiday.” She lifted the torch from its bracket before turning to leave.
“Wait! You’re taking the torch? What am I to do for light?” Could she hear the fear in his voice? He couldn’t bear confinement, especially in the dark.
It conjured memories of his sire beating him nearly senseless, and then locking him in a small wardrobe throughout the night. If Roark was fortunate, Maman would sneak in and let him out. That ceased when the old earl caught her one night.
He’d whipped her and Roark too. From that day onward, his father kept the key, so she couldn’t release Roark. She’d risked further thrashings by creeping in and staying beside the wardrobe until dawn. She sang to him, prayed with him, and told him in her soft French accent how brave and strong he was, how much she loved him.
Pain wrenched his gut. She and his stepfather had died this past December after attending a soiree. The doctor suspected food poisoning, although none of the other guests became ill. Not even Yvette or Edgar.
“I need the torch to return above stairs.” Miss Ferguson’s light brogue jerked him back to the present.
Roark stared in disbelief. She wouldn’t dare leave him here in the dark. Would she? This far below ground, not an iota of natural light penetrated the blackness
She quirked a brow at him, then turned her mouth down in exasperation. “There are candles, a holder, and matches in the bundle.”
With that, she abruptly spun away and hurried from his sight taking the meager light with her.
Seizing the bars before him, Roark shook them, unleashing his rage on the unyielding iron.
“Curse you, Adaira Ferguson. You cannot keep me locked in here! You will live to regret this, so help me God. When I get out of here, I’ll send you to prison!”
CHAPTER 6
Adaira’s heart knocked so violently against her ribs, the organ threatened to burst from its confines.
Prison.
The notion was terrifying.
She’d seen vengeance on Marquardt’s striking face, burning in his wintry eyes. He’d bring charges. Not that she believed the cur’s claim he was the earl. Even with his mahogany hair neatly combed, chiseled jaw shaven, his hunting jacket unsoiled, and his long, manicured fingers grime free—when he’d looked the part of an attractive nobleman—she’d not believed him.
Now, rumpled and unkempt, he resembled the cull she knew him to be.
She snorted. She lied to herself.
He was still deucedly attractive. Yet, there’d been something else deep within his gaze, something vulnerable that tore at her, washing her in guilt and remorse.
Adaira began to run, though she suspected she ran from her thoughts rather than Marquardt’s outraged curses and threats echoing eerily in the keep’s bowels.
Though he’d tried to hide it, she’d seen his dread.
“ Yvette’s not mentioned anything about a visit from you.”
“And she apprises you of all her business?” He wiped his damp palms on his coat. He couldn’t take much more of this.
“Miss Ferguson, I’m warning you. Release me, immediately.”
He’d go mad if she left him in here.
She cocked her head. “ That, I cannot do.”
Had he given himself away? Could she sense the terror building in him? Hear it in his voice? See it etched on his face and simmering in his eyes?
“I do hope you find your accommodations comfortable, my lord .” Her emphasis on the last two words clearly revealed her skepticism.
She looked past him. “There’s food, wine, and wash water on the table.”
He followed her gaze to a small table nestled in the corner. “What, no caviar? Truffles? Champagne?”
A stack of rat-chewed books were piled atop the table, along with a bulging linen cloth. A worn skirted armchair and two buckets were the only other items in the chamber.
His mouth twisted into a sneer. “No tooth powder, shaving brush, or razor strap?”
“No. You’re not on holiday.” She lifted the torch from its bracket before turning to leave.
“Wait! You’re taking the torch? What am I to do for light?” Could she hear the fear in his voice? He couldn’t bear confinement, especially in the dark.
It conjured memories of his sire beating him nearly senseless, and then locking him in a small wardrobe throughout the night. If Roark was fortunate, Maman would sneak in and let him out. That ceased when the old earl caught her one night.
He’d whipped her and Roark too. From that day onward, his father kept the key, so she couldn’t release Roark. She’d risked further thrashings by creeping in and staying beside the wardrobe until dawn. She sang to him, prayed with him, and told him in her soft French accent how brave and strong he was, how much she loved him.
Pain wrenched his gut. She and his stepfather had died this past December after attending a soiree. The doctor suspected food poisoning, although none of the other guests became ill. Not even Yvette or Edgar.
“I need the torch to return above stairs.” Miss Ferguson’s light brogue jerked him back to the present.
Roark stared in disbelief. She wouldn’t dare leave him here in the dark. Would she? This far below ground, not an iota of natural light penetrated the blackness
She quirked a brow at him, then turned her mouth down in exasperation. “There are candles, a holder, and matches in the bundle.”
With that, she abruptly spun away and hurried from his sight taking the meager light with her.
Seizing the bars before him, Roark shook them, unleashing his rage on the unyielding iron.
“Curse you, Adaira Ferguson. You cannot keep me locked in here! You will live to regret this, so help me God. When I get out of here, I’ll send you to prison!”
CHAPTER 6
Adaira’s heart knocked so violently against her ribs, the organ threatened to burst from its confines.
Prison.
The notion was terrifying.
She’d seen vengeance on Marquardt’s striking face, burning in his wintry eyes. He’d bring charges. Not that she believed the cur’s claim he was the earl. Even with his mahogany hair neatly combed, chiseled jaw shaven, his hunting jacket unsoiled, and his long, manicured fingers grime free—when he’d looked the part of an attractive nobleman—she’d not believed him.
Now, rumpled and unkempt, he resembled the cull she knew him to be.
She snorted. She lied to herself.
He was still deucedly attractive. Yet, there’d been something else deep within his gaze, something vulnerable that tore at her, washing her in guilt and remorse.
Adaira began to run, though she suspected she ran from her thoughts rather than Marquardt’s outraged curses and threats echoing eerily in the keep’s bowels.
Though he’d tried to hide it, she’d seen his dread.