Page 56 of Tamed By her Duke

Grace supposed it could be Benedict, though the idea didn’t sit quite right with her. For one, she’d no doubt have heard about it, unless he had discovered some bill of sale since she’d been married and tended to it immediately. Though Grace thought Emily might have written to warn her, had this occurred.

And why would Benedict be secretive about it? He’d been forthright about his mother’s involvement in Grace’s kidnapping otherwise; he had decided it was best to try to get ahead of the gossip rather than skulking in secrecy and fearing being found out.

No, it didn’t make sense for it to be Benedict.

Dowling had, indeed, been the dowager countess’ lover, but Dowling was dead—and had only been posing as an aristocrat, in any case. Without the dowager countess’ support, he wouldn’t have the resources to send a man of business. Nor should Benedict’s mother herself have retained such power.

So, who?

Caleb’s eyes were on her. Creedy’s eyes were on her. She needed them both to stop right this instant.

Her smile felt forced. “And so what are things like in these parts when there isn’t a grand mystery afoot?” she asked, accurately predicting that it would set Mr. Creedy off on more cheerful storytelling.

As she listened with half an ear to his chatter, she held every part of herself together as tightly as she could, fearing that if she did not, she would break into a thousand pieces. She’d come here today for a reminder that her ordeal was behind her only to learn that a loose thread remained, one that she dared not pull, lest everything unravel and plunge her back into this unending nightmare.

CHAPTER 16

Caleb was beginning to think that he might commit actual, honest to God, murder for a full night’s sleep.

Caleb hadn’t been pleased to leave the army. He hadn’t been furious about it, he supposed—he’d not chosen his military career, so he wasn’t necessarily attached to it, though he’d resented having yet another choice taken from him when he’d been forced to resign his commission.

The one part about which he’d had decidedly uncomplicated feelings was sleeping in a proper bed. Every night.

He’d been an officer, a junior one at first before moving higher in the ranks, so he’d rarely been forced to sleep properly in the rough.

But there was just something so pleasant about a bed that stayed put, one that wasn’t too short or too narrow for him.

Getting to enjoy that, he’d told himself on the long journey back from his last assignment, might even be worth the bloody dukedom that came with it.

Except hewasn’tgetting to enjoy it, because he spent every night—everybloodynight now—worrying that his wife was going to wander off in her sleep and break her bloody neck.

All of which meant that when he heard Grace whimper, late in the night after they’d returned from the village, he was already awake.

He was on his feet in a flash, pulling on his trousers and shoving his feet into his boots a moment later, intuition guiding his movements.

Somethingin that village had bothered his wife. Something had made her turn suddenly ravenous for local gossip.

And whatever it was, she was hiding it from him.

“Thank you for the lovely day,” she’d said absently as they’d returned home, her gaze a thousand miles away.

“I think I’ll retire early,” she’d told him without meeting his gaze.

Pleasant, empty distractions.

Under the influence of sleep—and she was asleep, he knew by the way she failed to hear him when he quietly called her name—however, his wife could not be distracted. Instead, she moved with purpose, her feet unerring on the steps, her eyes wide and unfocused, as if whatever she was seeing was different from what was truly before her.

He followed close behind her, knowing he should stop her, should turn her and guide her back to her own bed, back to safety.

But he was so damned curious. And the instincts that had kept him alive on battlefields—not to mention the dangers of his own childhood—told him that this, right here, was his best chance for answers.

So he just followed, determined only to bar her if she risked herself. He followed, even as she walked through the lower level of the house and out the front door, though it was too cold for her to be out here in bare feet, in naught but her nightgown. He followed as the wind tugged at her, leaving her almost ghostly in the dark, quiet expanse of night.

He followed her out of the keep, over the walls, and to a bluff that overlooked not the sea, but the village below.

She stopped before she got too close to the edge—thankChrist—and stared and stared. He drew up beside her, careful not to alarm her.

“I don’t want to go back,” she said, her voice so small and frightened that it was almost childlike.

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